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PRESENTED BY 



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COMPLETE ^DJtllS <f%tt 



BY 



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L D N D 37 

PANCRAS LAME. 



THE ENTIRE WORKS 

OF 

ROBERT BURNS; 

WITH AN 

ACCOUNT OF HIS LIFE, 

Jk.>'D 

A CRITICISM ON HIS WRITINGS. 

To which are prefixed, 
SOME OBSERVATIONS ON THE CHARACTER AND CONDITION 

OF 

THE SCOTTISH PEASANTRY. 

BY JAMES CURRIE, M.D. 



THE FOUR VOLUMES COMPLETE IN ONE, 
WITH 

AN ENLARGED AND CORRECTED GLOSSARY. 



dFiity Btamoirtr 3Efctttcm. 

Embellished with 
FOURTEEN ILLUSTRATIONS FROM ORIGINAL DESIGNS BY MR STEWART. 



• 'LONDON': < * »,- 

ALLAN BELL fc CO., WAE\/I(.R feQUARE>. ' 

MDCCCXXXVI. 









CAPTAIN GRAHAM MOORE, 



OF THE ROYAL NAVY. 



When you were stationed on our coast about twelve years ago, you first re- 
commended to my particular notice the poems of the Ayrshire ploughman, whose 
works, published for the benefit of his widow and children, I now present to you. 
In a distant region of the world, whither the service of your country has carried 
you, you will, I know, receive with kindness this proof ot my regard; not perhaps 
without some surprise on finding that I have been engaged in editing this 
wrrk, not without some curiosity to know how I was qualified for such an 
undertaking. These points I will briefly explain. 

Having occasion to make an excursion to the county of Dumfries, in the sum- 
mer of 1792, I had there an opportunity of seeing and conversing with Burns. 
It has been my fortune to know some men of high reputation in literature, as 
well as in public life, but never to meet any one who, in the course of a single 
interview, communicated to me so strong an impression of the fcrce and versa- 
tility of his talents. After this I read the poems then published with greater in- 
terest and attention, and with a full conviction that, extraordinary as they are, 
they afford but an inadequate proof of the powers of their unfortunate author. 

Four years afterwards, Burns terminated his career. Among those whom 
the charms of genius had attached to him, was one with whom I have been 
i ind in the ties of friendship, from early life — Mr John Syme of Ryedale. 
gentleman, after the death of Burns, promoted with the utmost zeal a sub 
s- ption for the support of the widow and children, to which their relief from 
immediate distress is to be ascribed; and, in conjunction with other friends of 
this virtuous and destitute family, he projected the publication of this work for 
their benefit, by which the return of want might be prevented or prolonged. 

To this last undertaking, an editor and biographer was wanting, and Mr 
Syme's modesty opposed a barrier to his assuming an office for which he was, in 
other respects, peculiarly qualified. On this subject he consulted me ! and with 
the hope of surmounting his objections, I offered him my assistance, but in vain. 
Endeavours were used to procure an editor in other quarters, but without effect, 
'i'he task was beset with considerable difficulties ; and men of established reputa- 
tion naturally declined an undertaking, to the performance of which it was 
scarcely to be hoped that general approbation could be obtained, by any exertion 
of judgment or temper. 



iv DEDICATION. 

To sucn an office, my place of residence, my accustomed studies, and my 
occupation, were certainly little suited ; but the partiality of Mr Syme thought 
me in other respects not unqualified; and his solicitations, joined to those of our 
excellent friend and relation Mrs Dunlop, and of other friends of the family o< 
the poet, I have not been able to resist. To remove difficulties which would 
otherwise have been insurmountable, Mr Syme and Mr Gilbert Burns made i, 
journey to Liverpool, where thev explained and arranged the manuscripts, anc 1 
arranged such as seemed worthy of the press. From this visit I derived a de 
gree of pleasure which has compensated much of my labour. I had the satis 
faction of renewing my personal intercourse with a much valued friend, anci 
of forming an acquaintance with a man closely allied to Burns, in talents as well 
as in blood, in whose future fortunes the friends of virtue will not, 1 trust, be 
uninterested. 

The publication of this work has been delayed by obstacles which these 
gentlemen could neither remove nor foresee, and which it would be tedious to 
enumerate. At length the task is finished. If the part which I have taken 
shall serve the interest of the family, and receive the approbation of good men. 
I shall have my recompense. The errors into which I have fallen are not, I 
hope, very important: and they will be easily accounted for by those who 
know the circumstances under which this undertaking has been performed. 
Generous minds will receive the posthumous works of Burns with candour, ana 
even partiality, as the remains of an unfortunate man of genius, published for 
the benefit of his family, as the stay of the widow, and the hope of the fatherless. 

To secure the suffrages of such minds, all topics are omitted in the writings, 
and avoided in the life of Burns, that have a tendency to awaken the animosity 
of party. In perusing the following work, no offence will be received, ex- 
cept by those to whom the natural erect aspect of genius is offensive ; characters 
that will scarcely be found among those who are educated to the profession of 
arms. Such men do not court situations of danger, nor tread in the paths of 
glory. They will not be found in your service, which in our own days, emulates 
on another element, the superior fame of the Macedonian phalanx, or of the 
Roman legion, and which has lately made the shores of Europe and of Africa, 
resound with the shouts of victory, from the Texel to the Tagus, and from the 
Tagus to the Nile ! 

The works of Burns will be received favourably by one who stands in the fore- • 
most rank of this noble service, and who deserves his station. On the land or 
on the sea, I know no man more capable of judging of the character or of the 
writings of this original genius. Homer, and Shakspeare, and Ossian, cannot 
always occupy your leisure. This work may sometimes engage your atten- 
tion, while the steady breezes of the tropic swell your sails, and in another 
quarter of the earth, charm you with the strains of nature, or awake in your 
memory the scenes of your early days. Suffer me to hope that they may some- 
times recall to your mind the friend who addresses you, and who bids jou most 
affectionately— adieu I 

J. CURRIK. 
Liverpool, 1st May, 1800. 



CONTENTS. 



PREFATORY REMARKS. 



:r >'- 

Page 
Effects of the legal estab- 
lishment of Parochial 
schools — of the chnrch es- 
tablishment — of the ab- 
sence of poor laws— of the 
Scottish mnsic and nation- 
al songs — of the laws re- 
specting marriage and in- 
continence — Observations 
on the domestic and na- 
tional attachment of the 
Scots - 

LIFE OF BURNS. 

Narrative of his infancy and 
youth, by himself— Narra- 
tive on the same subject by 
his brother, and by Mr 
i, Murdoch of London, his 
teacher — Other particu- 
I lars of Burns while resi- 
l dent in Ayrshire — History 
of Burns while resident in 
Edinburgh, including let- 
ters to the Editor from Mr 
Stewart, and Dr Adair — 
History of Burns while on 
the farm of Ellisland, in 
Dumfriesshire — History of 
Burns while resident in 
Dnmfries — his last illness 
— death — and character — 
with general reflections 

Memoir respecting Burns, 
by a lady ... 5 

Criticism on the Works of 
Burns, including observa- 
tions on poetry in the 
Scottish dialect. and 
some remarks on Scottish 
literature ... 6 

Tributary Verses on the 
Death of Burns, by Mr 
Roscoe 7 



1. To a Female Friend. 
"Written about the year 
1780 . f 

2. To the same £ 

3. To the same - - £ 

4. To the same - « 
5 To Mr John Murdoch, 



15th Jan. 1783, 



ton- 



ic her : 



--? ? - 



of his present 
studies and temper of mind 83 

6. Extracts from MSS. Ob- 
servations on various sub- 
jects --- - 83 

7. To Mr Aiken, 1786. 
Written under distress of 




liud 

8. To Mrs Dunlop. Thanks 
for her notice. Praise of 
her ancestor, Sir William 
Wallace ... 8 

9. To Mrs Stewart of Stair, 
enclosing a poem on Miss 
A ... 8 

10. Dr Blacklock to the Rev. 
G. Lowrie, encouraging 
the Bard to visit Edin- 
burgh, and print a new 
edition of his poems there 8 

1 1 . From Sir John White- 
foord ... 8 

12. From the Rev. Mr Low- 
rie, 22d December, 1786. 
Advice to the Bard how to 
conduct himself in Edin- 
burgh ... 8 

13. To Mr Chalmers, 27th 
December, 1786. Praise 
of Miss Burnet of Mon- 
boddo ... 8 

14. To the Earl of Eg lin ton, 
Jan. 1787. Thanks for 
his patronage - - 8 

15. To Mrs Dunlop, 15th 
Jan. 1787. Account of 
his situation in Edinburgh 8 

16. To Dr Moore, 1787. 
Grateful acknowledgments 
of Dr M.'s notice of him 
in his letters to Mrs Dun- 
lop - - - - 8 

17. From Dr Moore, 23d 
Jan. 1787. In answer to 
the foregoing, and enclos- 
ing a sonnet on the Bard, 
by Miss Williams - 8 

18. To Dr Moore, 15th Feb. 
1787 - - - - 9 

19. From Dr Moore, 28th 
February, 1787. Sends 
the Bard a present of his 
"View of Society and Man- 
ners," &c. - - 9 

20. To the Earl of Glen- 
cairn, 1787. Grateful ac- 
knowledgments of kind- 
ness .... 9 

21. To the Earl of Buchan, 



85. 



the foregoing 

24. Extract from , 8th 

March, 1787. Good ad- 
vice .... 9 
15. To Mrs Dunlop, 22d 
J March, 1787. Respecting 
I his prospects on leaving 
I | Edinburgh - - 9 

'26. To the same, 15th 
j April, 1787. On the same 
subject 9 

17. To Dr Moore, 23d 
April, 1787. On the same 
iubjec 



29. To the Rev. Dr Blair, 
3d May. Written on leav- 
ing Edinburgh. Thanks 
for his kindness - 9 

30. From Dr Biair, 4th May, 
in reply to the preceding 9 

31. From Dr Moore, 23d 
May. 1787. Criticism and 
good advice - - 9 

32. From Mr John Hutchi- 
son - - - - 9 

33. To Mr Walker, at Blair 
of Athole, enclosing the 
'• Humble petition of Brnar 
Water to the Duke of 
Athole" ... 9 

34. To Mr G. Burns, 17th 
Sept. Account of his tour 
through the Highlands 9 

35. From Mr Ramsay of 
Ochtertyre, 22d October, 
enclosing Latin inscrip- 

and the tale of Omeron 
Cameron - - - 9 
i 36. From Mr Walker - 9 
. From Mr A M .10 

38. Mr Ramsay to the Rev. 
W.Young, 22dOct. intro- 
ducing our poet - 10 

39. Mr Ramsay to Dr Black- 
lock. 27th Oct. Anecdotes 
of Scottish Songs for our 
Poet 10 

40. From Mr John Mur- 
doch, in London, 23th 
Oct. in answer to No. 5 10 

41. From Mr , Gordon 



nlop, 21si 



Castle, 31st Oct. 17S7, ac- 
knowledging a song sent 
to lady Charlotte Gordon 10 

42. From the Rev. J. Skin- 
ner, 14th November, 178/. 
Some account of Scottish 
Poems 10: 

43. From Mrs , 30th 

Nov. enclosing Erse songs, 
with the mnsic - 101 

44. To Dalrymple, Esq. 

Congratulation ou his be- 
coming a poet. Praise of 
Lord Glencairn - lOi 

4 5. To Mrs 
Jan. 1788. 
recovery from sickness ] 

46. Extract to the same, 
12th Feb. 17S8. Derence 
of himself - - 1 

47. To the same, 7th Mar. 
1788. Who had heard 
that he had ridiculed her 104 

49. To Mr Cleghorn, 31st 
March, 1768, mentioning 
his having composed the 
first stanza of the Cheva- 
lier's Lament - - ] 

49. From Mr Cleghorn, 27 rh 
April, in reply to the above. 
The Chevalier's Lament in 
full, in a note - - 1 

50. To Mrs Dnnlop, 2Sth 
April, giving an account of 
his prospects - - 1 

51. Fror*the Rev. J. Skin- 
ner, 28th April, 1788, en- 
closing' two songs, one by 
himself, the other by a 
Buchan ploughman, the 
songs printed at large 1 

52. To Professor D." Stew- 
art, 3d May. Thanks for 
his friendship - - 1 

53. Extract to Mrs Dnnlop, 
4th May. Remarks on 
Drydeu's Virgil, and Pope's 
Odyssey I 

54. To the same, 27th May. 
General Reflections - 1 

55. To the same, at Mr Dun- 
lop's, Haddington, 13th 
June, 1738. Account of 
his marriage 1 

56. To Mr P. Hill, with a 
present of a cheese - 1 

57- To Mrs Dnniop. 2d Au- 
gust, 1788. With lines on 
a hermitage - - 1 

53. To the same, 10th Aug. 
Farther account of his 
Marriage - - 1 

59. To the same, 16th Aug. 



Reflec 
Life - 
60. To R. Grahar 
Fintry. A petitii 



110 



CONTENTS. 

Page 

62. To Mrs Dnnlop, at 
Moreham Maines, 13 th 
November - • 1 

63. To ****, 8th Nov. De- 
fence of the family of the 

suiting fallen greatness 113 

64. To" Mrs DunloR, 17th 
Dec. with the soldier's 
song — «« Go fetch to me a 
pint cf wine" - - ] 

65. To Miss Davies. a young 
lady who had heard he had 
been making a ballad ou 

" enclosing that bal 



115 



II. To Mr P. Hill, 1st Oct. 



lad 

!6. To Sir John White- 
foord - - - 115 

!~. From Mr G. Bnrns, 1st 
Jan. 1789. Reflections 
suggested by the dav 116 

63. ^To Mrs Dunlo'p, 1st 
Jan. Reflectionssuggested 
by the day - ' - 116 

69. To Dr Moore, 4th Jan. 
Account of his situation 
and prospects - - 116 

70. To Bishop Geddes. 3d 
February. Account of his 
situation and orosuects 117 

71. From the Rev. P. Car- 
frae, 2d January, 1789. 
Requesting advice as to the 
publishing Mr Mylne's 
poems - - - 117 

72. To Mrs Dunlop, 4th 
March. Reflections after 

a visit to Edinburgh 113 

'3. To the Rev. P. Carfrae, 
in answer to No. 71 . 119 
'4. To Dr Moore. Enclos- 
ing a poem - - 119 
'5. To Mr Hill. Apostrophe 
to Frugality - - 119 

6. To Mrs Dunlop. With 
a sketch of an epistle iu 
verse to the Right Hon. C. 

J. Fox - - - 120 

7. To Mr Cunningham. 
With the first draught of 
the poem on a Wounded 
Hare - - - 121 

8. From Dr Gregory. Cri- 
ticism of the poem on a 
Wounded Hare - 121 

9. To Mr M-Anlayof Dum- 
barton. Account of his 
situation 122 

30. To Mrs Dnnlop. Re- 
flections on Religion 122 
II. From Dr Moore. Good 
advice - - - 123 

S2. From Miss J. Little. A 
poetess in humble life, 
with a poem in praise of 
our Bard - - - 123 

83. From Mr . Some 

of Fergusson 124 

34. To Mr . In answer 124 

85. To Mrs Dunlop. Praise 
ofZeluco 125 

86. From Dr Blacklock, An 
epistle in verse 126 



Page 

ST. To Dr Blacklock. Poe- 
tical reply to the above 125 

88. To R. Graham, Esq. En- 
closing some electioneer- 
ing ballads - - 126 

39. To Mrs Dnnlop. Seri- 
ous and interesting reflec- 
tions ... 127 

90. To Sir John Sinclair. 
Account of a book society 
among the farmers in 
Nithsdale - - 12S 

91._ To Mr Gilbert Burns. 
With a prologue spoken in 
the Dumfries Theatre 129 

92. To Mrs Dnnlop. Some 
account of Falconer, au- 
thor of the Shipwreck 129 
3. From Mr Cunningham. 
Inquiries of our Bard 130 

94. To Mr Cunningham. In 
:ply to the above - 131 

95. To Mr Hill. Order for 
books - - - 131 

•6. To Mrs Dunlop. Re- 
marks on the Lounger, 
and on the writings of Mr 
Mackenzie - - 132 

97. From Mr Cunningham. 
Account of the death of 
Miss Burnet of Monboddol33 

98. To Dr Moore. Thanks 
for a present of Zelnco 133 

99. To Mrs Dunlop. Writ- 
ten under wounded pride 134 

100. To Mr Cunningham, 
8th August. Aspirations 
after independence - 134 

101. From Dr Blacklock, 
1st September, 1790. Poe- 
tical letter of Friendship 134 

102. Extract from Mr Cun- 
ningham, 14th October. 
Suggesting subjects for 
onr poet's muse - 135 

103. To Mrs Dunlop, Nov. 
1790. Congratulations on 
the birth of "her grandson 135 

104. To Mr Cunningham. 
23d Jan. 1791. with an 
elegy on Miss Burnet of 
Monboddo - - 135 

105. To Mr Hill, 17th Jan. 
Indignant Apostrophe to 
Poverty - - - 133 

106. From A. F. Tvtler, 
Esq. 12tn March. Criti- 
cism on Tarn o' Shanter 135 

107. To A. F. Tytler, Esq. 

in reply to the above 137 

103. To Mrs Dunlop, 7th 
February, 1791. Enclos- 
ing his elegy on Miss Bur- 
net ... 137 

109. To Lady W. M. Con- 
stable, acknowledging a 
present of a snuff-box 138 

110. To Mrs Graham of Fin- 
try, enclosing "Queen 
Mary's Lament" - 13S 

111. From the Rev. G. 
Baird, 8th February, 1781, 
requesting assistance in 



Page 
publishing the poems of 
Michael Bruce - 138 

112. To the Rev. G. Baird, 

in reply to the above 139 

113. To Dr Moore. 28th 
February, 1791, enclosing 
Tarn o' Shanter, &c. 139 

114. From Dr Moore, 29th 
March, with remarks on 
Tamo' Shanter, Sec. 140 

115. To the Rev. A. Alison, 
14th Feb. acknowledging 
his present of the " Essays 
on the principles of Taste." 
with remarks on the book 140 

116. To Mr Cunningham, 
12th March, with a Jaco- 
bite song, &c. - - 141 

117. To Mrs Dunlop, Uth 
April. Comparison be- 
tween female attractions 

in high and humble life 141 

118. To Mr Cunningham, 
11th June, requesting his 
interest for an oppressed 
friend 142 

119. From the Earl of Buch- 
an, 17th June, 1791, invit- 
ing over our Bard to the 
coronation of the bust of 
Thomson on Ednam hill 142 

120. To the Earl ofBuchan, 

in reply ... 142 

121. From the Earl ofBuch- 
an, 16th Sept. 1671, pro- 
posing a subject for our 
Poet's muse - - 143 

122. To Lady E. Cunning- 
ham, enclosing " The La- 
ment for James, Earl of 
Glencairn " 143 

123. To Mr Ainslie. State 
of his mind after inebria- 
tion 143 

124. From Sir John White- 
foord. 16th Oct. Thanks 
for " The lament on James, 
Earl of Glencairn" - 144 

125. From A. F. Tytler, 
Esq. 27th November. 1791. 
Criticism on the Whistle 
and the Lament - 144 

12*5. To Miss Davies. Apo- 
logy for neglecting her 
commands— moral reflec- 
tions 145 

127. To Mrs Dunlop, 17th 
December, enclosing " The 
song of Death " - 145 

128. To Mrs Dunlop, 5th 
January, 1792, acknow- 
ledging the present of a 
cup 146 

129. To Mr William Smel- 
lie, 22d January, introduc- 
ing Mrs Riddel - 146 

130. To Mr W. Nicol, 20th 
February. Ironical thanks 
tor advice - . 146 



a seal— moral reflect 



CONTENTS. 

Pagi 

132. To Mrs Dunlop, 22d 
August. Account of his 



134. To Mrs Dunlop, 24th 
September. Account of 
his family - - 15 

135. To Mrs Dunlop. Let- 
ter of condolence under 
affliction - - - 15 

136. To Mrs Dunlop, 6th 
December, 1792, with a 
poem entitled, " The 
Rights of Woman " 15 

137. To Miss B of 

York, 21st March, 1793. 
Letter of Friendship 15 

138. To Miss C , Aug. 

1793. Character and tem- 
perament of a poet - 15 
— To John M'Murdo, 
Esq. December, 1793. Re- 
paying money - 15 

140. ToMissB ,advising 

her what play to bespeak 
at the Dumfries Theatre 15 

141. To a Lady in favour of 

a Player's Benefit - 15: 

142. Extract to Mr , 

1794. On his prospects 
in the Excise - - 15: 

143. To Mrs R - 15: 

144. To th( 



Vll 

. Puge 
January, 1796. Acconnt 
of the Death of his daugh- 
ter, and of his own ill 
health - - - 158 

156. To Mrs R , 4th 

June, 1796. Apology for 
not going to the birth- 
night assembly - 158 

157. To Mr Cunningham, 
7th July, 1796. Account 
of his illness and of his 
poverty — ■ anticipation of 
his death - - - 159 

158- To Mrs Burns. Sea- 
bithing affords little re- 
lief - - - - 159 



\2? 



prayei 



the: 



:[ cry a 






ribes 

145. To the 
Werter 



To the s 



same. De- 
melancholy 
- - 154 
ame, lending 

154 



turn of interrupted friend- 
ship i: 

147. To the same, on a 
temporary estrangement li 

148. To John byme, Esq. 
Reflections on the happi- 
ness of Mr O 1! 

149. To Miss , request- 
ing the return of MSS. 
lent to a deceased friend li 

150. To Mr Cunningham, 
25th February, 1794. Mel- 
ancholy reflections — cheer- 
ing prospects of a happier 
world - . - 1; 

151. To Mrs 

" The dead to the living" 156 

152. To Mrs Dunlop, 15th 
December, 1795. Reflec 



the Hoi 

The Holy Fair - 
Death and Dr Hoi 

I he Brigs of Ayr - 172 

The Ordination - 174 

The Calf . - - 175 
Address to the Deil - 176 
The death and dying words 

of Poor Mailie - 177 

Poor Mailie's Elegy - 177 
To J. S*** - - 178 

A Dream - - - 179 
The Vision - - 180 

Address to the Unco Guid, 

the Rigidly Righteous 183 
Tarn Samson's Elegy 184 

Halloween - - 185 

The Au Id Farmer's New- 



M01 



.n«r Sai 






to his Auld Mare Maggie 188 
To a Mouse - - 188 

A Winter Night - 188 

Epistle to Davie, a Brother 

Poet - - • 190 

The Lament 
Despondency : ; 
Winter: A Dire 
The Cotter's 

Night 
Vlan was made to Mourn : 

A Dirge 19 

A Prayer in the Prospect of 

Death ... 19 

Stanzas on the same occa- 



n Ode IS 

1 - IS 
Saturday 



the 1 



1 of 



left 






his family, if he should 
die — praise of the poem 
entitled -The Tax" 156 

153. To the same, in Lon- 
don, 20th December, 1795 157 

154. To Mrs R , 20th 

January, 1796. Thanks 
for the travels of Anachar- 
sis 158 

155. To Mrs Dunlop, 31st 



The First Psalm - 1 

A Prayer - - - 1 

The first six verses of the 

Ninetieth Psali 



To a Moi 



1 Dai si 



197 
198 



To Ruin 
To Miss L , with Beat- 
Poems, for a New- 
Gift - - 198 
Epistle to a Young Frienl 199 



On a Scotch Card goi 
the West Indies - 19 

To a Haggis - - 20 

A Dedication to G 

H , Esq. - 20i 

To a Lonse. on seeing one 
on a Lady's Bonnet at 
Church --- 20 

Address to Edinburgh 20! 

Eaistle to J. Lapraik, an 
old Scottish Bard - 20; 

To the same - - 20- 

Epistle to W. S .Ochil- 
tree --.- 20- 

Epistle to J. R , enclos- 
ing some Poems - 20f 

John Barleycorn : A Bal- 
lad - - - - 20/ 

A Fragment. ' When Guild- 
ford good our pilot stood,'207 

Song, • It was upon a Lam- 
mas Night' - - 20S 

Song, ' Now westlin winds, 
and slanght'ring gnns-,'" 20S 

Song, ' Behind yon hills 
where Lngar flows,' - 209 

Green grows the Rashes : A 
Fragment - - 209 

Song, ' Again rejoicing Na- 
ture sees ' - - 209 

Song, 'The gloomy Night 
is gathering fast' - 210 

Song, ■ From thee, Eliza, I 



Tarbolton 
Song, ' No Churchman am 

I for to rail aud to write' 21 
Written on Friar's Carse 

Hermitage - - 21 

Ode to the Memory of Mr3 



CONTENTS. 

Page Page 

to ; On the death of John 

199 j M'Leod, Esq. - - J 

'■*■" Humble Perition of Brnar 

Water ... 5 

On Scaring some Water 

Fowl ... j 

Written a-t the Inn in Tay- 



M.rthev 



, of- 
Elegyon Captain 

Henderson 
Lament of Mary 



To Robert Graham, Esq. of 

Fintry ... 21 
Lament for James, Earl of 

Glencairn - - 21 

Lines sent to Sir John 
Whitefoord, with the fore- 
going Poem - • 21 
Tarn o' Shanter: A Tale 21 
On seeing a wounded Hare 

a fellow had Shot at 21 

Address to the Shade of 

Thomson - - 21 

Epitaph on a celebrated 
Ruling Elder - - 21 

on a noisy Polemic 21 

on Wee Johnny 21 

for the Author's Fa- 
ther 21 

for R. A. Esq. 21 

forG. H. Esq. 21 

A Bard's Epitaph - 21 

On Captain Grose's Pere- 
grinations - - 21 
On Miss Cruikshanks 21 
Song, 'Anna, thy charms 
my bosom fire,' ' - 21 



221 

Written at the Fail of 
Fyers - - - 221 

On the Birth of a Posthu- 
mous Child - - 221 

Second Eoisfle to Davie, a 

Brother Poet - - 223 
On my Early Days - 223 
Song, « In Mauchline there 
dwells six prooer young 
Belles' - - - 224 
On the Death of Sir James 

Hunter Blair - - 224 
Written on the blank leaf 
of a copy of the Poems 
presented to an old Sweet- 
heart then married - 224 
The Jolly Beggars : A Can- 
tata - - - 2i5 
The Kirk's Alarm: A Sa- 
tire 223 
The Ewa Herds - - 229 
The Heripecked Husband 230 
Elegy on the year 1"8 230 
Verses written on the Win- 
dow of the Inn at Carron 230 
Lines delivered bv Burns on 

his Death-bed - - 230 
Lines delivered by Bnrns at 
a Meeting of the Dumfries- 
shire Volunteers - 230 
A Vision „- 
Address to W. Tytier, Esq. 242 
To a Gentleman who had 
sent a Newspaper and of- 
fered to continne it - 243 
On Pastoral p.etrv - 243 
Sketch.— New-year's day 244 
On Mr William Smellie 245 
On the Death of Mr Riddel 245 



W,-i 






ription for 



i a>3 



Independence 
donody on a Lady famed 
for her caprice - 24 

luswer to a Surveyors 
mandate 24 

Impromptu on Mrs 's 

Birth-dav - - - 24 

To Miss Jessy L 24 

Extempore t( 



Dun 



.•o!.ii 



To Mr Mitchell 
To a Gentleman wh 
had offended 
)n Life, addressed t 



living a fiv 
Epitaph on a Friend 
Grace before Dinner 
In Sensibility, to 

Dnnlop - 
On taking leave at a 

' the Highlands 



Hermitage, on Nitnside 109 
Epistle to R. Graham, Esq.lll 
On seeing a Wounded Hare) 2'. 
To Dr Blacklock - 12 

Prologue - - - 12 
Elegy on the late Miss Bur- 
net of Alonbodd.i - 13% 
Tbe Rights of Woman 151 

Address, spoken by Miss 
Fontenelle - - 15' 

INDEX TO THE POETRY 



'.dieu! a heart-warm, fond 
adien ! - - . 2' 

Admiring Nature in her 
wildest grace - - 25 

Adown winding Nith I did 



A guid New-year I wish thee, 
Maggie - - - U 

Ah ope, Lord Gregory, thy 
door - - '-2( 

All hail! inexorable lord It 

Among the heathy hills and 
ragged woods - - 21 

Ance mair I hail thee, thon 
gloomy December - 22 

An" O for ane and twenty. 
Tarn 23 

An honest man here lies at 
rest 25 

Anna, thy charms my bo- 
som fire - - - 21 

A rose-bud bv my earlv 



As down the burn 

their way • 
As I stood by yoi 



roofless 



As Mailie and her lambs 

thegither - - lj 

Awa wi' your witchcraft o' 

A' ye wha live by soups o' 
drink 1£ 

Beauteous rose-bud, young 
and gay 21 

Behind yon hills where Lu- 
gar flows 21 

Behold the hour, the boat 



Below thir stanc 
Blythe, blythe 



s lie Jamie's 



d merrv 
23 

Blythe hae I been on yon 
hill 



B.T.r.i 



e wee thir 
hing 



:ely seen in gladsome 

By Allan stream I chanced 

9.7' 
castle wa', at the 
f the day - 14' 



janiywi'mair 

urs'd be the 



the 

poorest wretch in lite 2.1 

Dear S , the sleest, pan- 

kie thief - - - 17 
Deluded swain, ihe pleasure 2fc 
Does haughty Gaul invasion 

Threat 24 

Duncan Gray came here to 

woo .... 26 
Dweller in yon dungeon 

dark ... 21 

Edina! Scotia's darlin? 

seat ... '20 

Expect ni, Sir, in this nar- 
ration 2C 
Fairest maid on Devon 

banks ... 30 

Fair fa' your honest, sonsie 

face - - - - 20 
Farewell thou stream that 

winding flows - - 26 
Farewell thou fair day, thou 

green earth, and ye skies 5 
Fate gave the word, the ar- 

row'sped 24 

Flow gently, sweet Afton, 

among thy green braes 23 
For h rds, or kings I dinna 

mourn 23 

Forlorn, my love,, no com- 
fort near 30 
Friend of the Poe', tried 

and leal ... 24' 
Froa thee, Eliza, I must go 21' 
miif is the day, and mirk's 

the night 23 



Kail. Poesy ! thou Nymph 
reserved 2< 

Ha', whare ye gaun. ye 
crowlin ferlje - -' 2C 

Has auld K seen 

the Deil ... if 

Hear, Land o' Cikes, and 
brither Scots - - 21 
lere awa, there awa, wan- 
dering Willie 



CONTENTS. 

Page 

How can my poor heart be 

glad ... 285 

How cold is that bosom 

which folly once fired 245 
How cruel are the parents 299 
How long and dreary is the 

night 289 

How pleasant the banks of 

the clear-winding Devon 41 
Husband, husband, cease 

yoi 



Bred 



in death 
21 

ang, lies 
22 



le who of R_k-r 
uirT and dead . 
lere is the glen 
the bower . . 2c 

ere's a health to ane I lo'e 
dear ... 3c 

Here, where the Scottish 
Muse immor»ai lives 25: 



I call no goddess to inspir 

my strains. - - j 

I gaed a waefu' gate yestreen 1 
I gat your letter, winsome 
Willie ... 5 
I hae a wife o' mine ain 
I lang hae thought, my 
youthfu' friend - ] 

I mind it weel, in early 



233 



1 three ti 



i doubly o'ei 



In Manchiine there dwells 
six proper young belles 224 
[ n simmer when the hay was 



I sing of a whistle, a whistle 

of worth - - - 222 
Is there a whim-inspired 

fool - - . 21S 

Is there, for honest poverty 296 
It was the charming month 

of May - - - 291 
It was upon a Lammas 

night - - - 208 

Jockey's ta'en the parting 

kiss - - - '249 

John Anderson my jo. John 235 
Keen blaws the 'wind o'er 

Donnocht head - 288 

Ken you ought o' Captain 



Kind Sir, I've read your 
paper through - - 24 

Know thou, "O stranger to 
the fame . - 21 



<et me wander where I 
<et not a woman e'er ( 
plain - - - 

Let other poets raise a 



Page 

Musing on the roaring 
ocean ... 232 

My Chloris, mark how green 
the groves - - 290 

My curse upon yonr venom'd 
stang - - - 240 

My heart is a-breaking, dear 



Mv lord, I know yonr noble 
ear - - - - 22 

My loved, my honour' d 
mnch respecteJ friend IS 

My Peggy's face, my Peg- 
gy's form 25 

Nae geutle dames, tho' e'er 
sae fair - - - 24 

No churchman am I for to 
rail and to write - 21 

guests, be 



Xo n 



245 



Fra- 



165 



Lon?, long the night 
Loud blaw the frostv 
breezes - - - 231 
rfinis, what reck I by thee 240 
Mark vonder pomp of costly 

299 



Now in her green mantle 
blythe nature arrays 2y.i 

Now Nature hangs her man- 
tle green - - - 213 

Now simmer blinks on 
flowery braes - - 23 1 

Now spring has clad the 
grove in green - 300 

Now rosy May comes in wi' 
flowers - - - 275 

Now westlin' winds and 
slaught'ring guns - 208 

O a' ye pious godly flocks 229 



O boi 



301 



O cam ye here the fight to 
shun ... 24 

O condescend, dear charm- 
ing maid - - 2= 

O death! thou tyrant fell 
and bloody - - 21 

O gin my love were yon red 



O had the malt thy strength 

of mind 24 

Oh open the door, some pity 

to show 26 

O ken ve what Meg o' the 

Mill has gotten - 26 

O lassie art thou sleeping 

yet - 



297 
y spinning 
wheel - - - 237 

O leeze me on my wee thing 259 
Old Winter with his frosty 

beard - - - 247 

O Logan, sweetly didst thou 

glide - - - 269 

O love will ventnre in where 

it darena weel be seen 23'* 
O Mary, at thy window be 263 
O May, thy moi 



i this 



24 1 



Page 

O muckle thinks my love o' 

my beauty - - 236 

O my luve's like a red red 

rose ---Ml 

Once fondly loved and still I 

remembered dear - 224 
O poortith canld, and rest- I 

ress love - - - 260 
n Philly, happy be that day 293 ■ 
Ojpress'd with grief, op- 

press'd with care - 1 
O rough, rude, ready-witted 



Page 

Sleep'st thou, or wakest 
thou, fairest creature 289 

; Slow spreads the gloom my 



Thou : 



Page 



of an 



iependent 
wistrel of 



24a 



R- 



2.i4 



Orthodox, orthodox, 

believe in John Knox 1i 

O saw ye bonny Lesiy 2c 

O saw ye my dear, my 

Phely - - 2E 

U stay, sweet warbling 

woodlark, stay - 2{ 

O tell ua me o' wind and rain2£ 
O this is no my am lassie 300 
O Thou dread Power who 

reign'st above - - 1 
O Thou Great Being, what 

thou art 
O Thou pale orb, that silent 



191 



Stop, passenger! my story's 

brief ... 2: 

Stay, my charmer, can you 

Stay, my Willie — yet believe 

me - - - - S£ 
Streams that glide in orient 

plains - - - 4 

Sweet fa s the eve on Craigie- 

burn ...... r 

Sweet floweret, pledge o' 

meikle love - - 22 
The Catrine woods were 

yellow seen - - 22 
The day returns, my bosom 

burns 23 

The friend whom wild from 

wisdom's way 24 

The gloomy night is gath'r- 

ingfast --- 21 
The hunter loe's the i 






iThc.u i 

thegrov 
I Thou whom chance 

hither lead 
I Thou, who thy honour as 
j thy God reverest - 215 
j 'lis friendship's pledge, my 

young fair friend - 301 

i to Cmchallan came 245 

'Twas e'en, the dewy fie.ds 



296 'Twas in that pkee o' Scot- 
1 land's isle - - lc 

True-hearted was he, the sad 

swain o' the Yarrow 26 

Torn again, thou fair Eliza 23 
'Twas na her bonnie blue 

e'e was my ruin - 29 

Upon a simmer Sunday 

morn 16 

Upon that night, wheu 
fairies lieht - - IS 
here to view 



31 



O Thou, the first, the great- 
er triead - - 19/ 
U Thou, unknown, Almigh- 
ty Cause --- 196 
O Thou! whatever title suit 

thee - - - 176 

O Thou who kindly dost 

provide - - - 250 
O Tibbie, I hae seen the day 233 
O wat ye wha's in yon town 24 1 
(J wha is she that lo'es me 249 
O were I on Parnassus' hiil 234 
O were my love yon lilach 

fair ... 270 

O whistle and I'll come to 

you rav lad - - 273 

A variation in the chorus 300 
O Willie brew'd a peck o' 

maut - - - 234 

O wert thou in the cauld 

blast - - - 247 

O ye wha are sae guid y 

O ye whose cheek the tea 

pity stains 
R.ivingi wiuds around her 



2:0 



The lamp of day, with ill 

presaging glare 
Tr.eir groves o" sweet myrtle 

let toreigu lands reckon 29S 
The lazy mist hangs from 

the brow of the hill 233 

The lovely lass o' Inverness 240 
The man, in life, wherever 

placed - - - 197 
The poor man weeps — here 

G n sleeps - 218 

The simple Bard, rough at 

the rustic plough - 172 
The small birds rejoice in 

the green leaves returning 104 
The smiling spring comes 

in rejoicing - - 240 
The sun had closed the 

day - - 180 

The Thames flows proudly 



21- 



o the se 
The wind blew 

the hills - 
The wintry wesl 



holloi 



23 5 



blowing - - - 232 
Revered defender of beaute- 

ons Stuart - - 242 

Right Sir! your text I'll 

prove it true - - 175 
S id thy tale, thou idle page 219 
Sae flaxen were her ringlets 286 
Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace 

bled - - - 279 

Sensibility how charming 250 
She is a winsome wee thing 258 
She's fair and fause that 

causes my smart - 239 
Should auld acquaintance 



There's auld Rob Morris 

s in yon glen 250 

There's braw, braw lads on 

Yarrow braes - - 261 
There was a lass and she 

270 
There was once a day, but 

old lime was then young 242 
There were three kings into 

.st - - - 207 
They snoo. me sair, and 

hand me dowu - 237 

Thickest nuht o'erhangs 

dwelling - 231 

Thine am I, my faithful 



;, sweet thrush, upon 
thy leafless bough 
Sir. as your mandate di 
request 



247 



Thine be the volu 



:s, Jessy 

24 
iiids th' 



your warks 
Wee, modest, crimson-tip- 
ped flower 1£ 
Wee, sleekit, cow'rin, tim- 

'rous beastie lc 

What can a young lassie, 

what shall a young lassie 22 
Wheu biting Boreas, fek 

and doure lc 

When chapman billies leave 

the street - - 21 

When chill November's 

surly blast - - 19 

When Death's dark stream 

I ferry o'er - - 25 
When Guilford good ocr 

pilot stood - - 20 

When lyart leaves bestrew 

theyird 22 

When o'er the hih the east- 



When 



:, th, 



law" S - 26 
the joys I hae 

with an additional 

28 
raving angry win- 



While briers an' woodbines 

budding green - 202 

While iarks with little wing 272 
While new-ca'd kye rout at 

the stake - - 203 

While virgin spring, bv 

Eden's flood - - '217 
While winds frae aff Ben 

Lomond blaw - - 190 
Whoe'er thou art, O reader, 

know - - - 213 

Why am I loath to leave this 

earVmv scene - - 195 

Why, why tell thv lover 302 
Why, ye tenants of the lake 220 



Vii!ie Wastie dwalt nu 

Tweed --- 2: 
(fill ye go to the Indies, 

my Mary - - 2 : 

vVilt thou be mv dearie 2' 
The same 2J 

With musing, deep, aston- 

ish'd stare V 

Ye banks, and braes, &c. 2: 
Ye banks and braes o' 

bonny Doon 2^ 

Ye Irish lords - - 1( 



1. Mr Thomson to Mr 
Burns. 1792. Desiring the 
Bard to furnish verses for 
some of the Scottish airs, 
and to revise former songs 255 

2. Mr B. to Mr T. Promis- 
ing assistance - - $ 

3. Mr T. to Mr B. With 



CONTENTS. 



19. Mr B. to Mr T. Voice 
of Coila— criticism— Ori- 
>f 'The Lass o' Pa- 



= Mir 



25G 



4. Mr B. to Mr T. With 
'The Lee Rig,' and 'Will 
ye go to the Indies, my 
Mary' 2c 

5. Mr B. to Mr T. With 
' My wife's a winsome wee 
thing,' and ' O saw ye 
bonny Lesley' - 2c 

6. Mr B. to MrT. With 

« Highland Mary' - 25 

7. Mr T. to Mr B. Thanks 
and critical observations 25 

8. Mr B. to Mr T. With 
an additional stanza 'The 
leeR.g' ... 25 

9. Mr B. to Mr T. With 
'Ai:ld Rob Morris' and 

Duncan Grav' - 26 

10. Mr B. to MrT. With 
'O Poortith Canld.' &c. 
and 'Gal I a Water' - 2G 

11. MrT. to Mr B. Jan. 
1793. Desiring anecdotes 
on the origin of particular 
songs. Tyller of Wood- 
houselee— Plevel — sends 
P. Pindar's 'Lord Gre- 
gory.' Postscript from the 
"Hon. A. Erskine . 26 

12. Mr B. to Mr T. Has 
Mr Tytler's anecdotes, and 



J 20. Mr T. to Mr B. . 267 
3 21. Mr B. to Mr T. Sim- 

| plicity requisite in a song 
2; — one poet should not 
3 ! mangle the works of ano- 

! ther - - - 267 

=1 22. Mr B. to Mr T. ' Fare- 

5 - well, thou stream that 

wiuding flows' — Wishes 

that the national music 

features ... 268 

23. Mr T. to Mr B. Thanks 
and observations - 268 

24. Mr B. to Mr T. With 
' Blythe hae I been on yon 
hill' --- 268 

25. MrB. to MrT. With 
' O Logan, sweetly didst 
thou glide' — 'O gin my 
love,' &c. - - 269 

26. Mr T. to Mr B. En- 
closing a note— Thanks 270 

27. Mr B. to Mr T. With 
' There was a lass and she 
was fair' - - 270 

28. Mr B. to Mr T. Hurt 
at the idea of pecuniary 
recompense — Remarks on 
songs ... 271 

29. Mr T. to Mr B. Musi- 

30* M^B^to'Mr T. For" 
Mr Clarke - - 272 

31. Mr B. to MrT. With 

' Phitlis the fair- - 272 

32. Mr T. to Mr B. Mr 
Allan — Drawing from 

' John Anderson my jo' 272 

33. Mr B. to Mr T. With 
' Had I a cave,' &c. Some 
airs common to Scotland 
and Ireland - - 272 

34. Mr B. to Mr T. With 



mds his 



' Lord Gre- 
K"ry* - . . 262 

13. Mr B. to Mr T. With 
' Mary Morrison' - 263 

14 MrB to MrT. With 
• Wandering Willie' 263 

15. Mr B. to MrT. With 

' Open the door to me, Oh' 263 

16. MrB. to MrT. With 

' Jessie' - 264 

17. MrT. to MrB. With 
a list of songs, and « Wan- 
derii-g Willie' altered 264 

18. MrB. to MrT. 'When 
wild war's.' &c. and ' Meg 

o' the Mill' - . 265 



Alia! 



I 



15. Mr B. to Mr T. With 
' Whistle and I'll come to 
you, my lad,' and ' Awa 
wi' your belles and your 
beauties' - - 27 

86. Mr B. to MrT. With 
e take thee to 



Page 

marks on s^ngs in MrT.'s 
list— His own method of 
forming a song — ' Thor. 






279 



44. MrT. to MrB. Thanks 
and observations - 279 

45. Mr B. to Mr T. ' On 
Bannockburn' — sends 
•Fair Jenny' - - 280 

46. Mr B. to' Mr T. With 
1 Deluded swain, the plea- 
sure—Remarks - 281 

47. Mr B. to MrT. With 
' Thine am 1, my faithful 
fair' — ' O condescend, dear 
charming maid' — 'The 
nightingale' — ' Laura' — 
(the three last by G. Turn- 
bull) - - - 2SI 

48. Mr T. to Mr B. Ap- 
prehensions — Thanks 283 

49. Mr B. to Mr T. With 
' Husband, husband, cease 
your strife,' and 'Wilt 
thou be my dearie' - 283 

50. MrT. to Mr B. 1794. 
.Melancholy comparison 
between Burns and Car- 
iini— Mr Allan has begun 
a sketch from the Cottar's 
Saturday Night - 2 C 3 

51. MrB. to MrT. Praise 
of Mr Allan— 'Banks of 
Cree' - - - 2°4 

52. MrB. to MrT. Pleyel 
in France — ' Here where 
the Scottish Muse immor- 
tal lives,' presented to Mis? 
Graham of Fintrv - 284 

53. Mr T. to MrB. Does 

Pleyel soon, but desires to 
be prepared with the poe- 



37.' Mr B, 
"e Davie 



to MrT. 'Dain- 



38. Mr T. to Mr B. De- 
lighted with the produc- 
tions of Burns' muse 27 
9. Mr B. to Mr T. With 
' Bruce to his troops at 
Bannockburn' - 27 

40. Mr B to Mr T. With 
Behold the hour, the boat 



_try 



of a 



284 



.' &c- 



1 to Dr Maxwell 

58. Mr T. to Mr B. Ad- 
vising him to write a Mu- 
si calDrama - - 28 

59. Mr T. to Mr B. Has 
lining Scottish 



:u!t 



> obtain 



-Hi:s 



-Diffi- 



nves' 
41. Mr T. 1 



Mr 



Ob- 



60. Mr B. to Mr T. Re- 
cipe for producing a love- 
song — ' Saw ye my Phely' 



Pagt 
—Remarks and a 
— ' How lona and dreary is 
the night?— « Let 

lover's morning salute to 
his mistress' — • The Auid 
Mar.' — ' Keen blaws the 
ivind o'er Donocht-head,' 
in a note - - 288 

61. Mr T. to Mr B. Wishes 
he liiiew the inspiring Fair 
Oue — Ritson's historical 
Msay not interesting — .-Vl- 
Ian— Maggie Lauder 290 

62. Mr B. to Mr T. Has 
begun his Anecdotes, ice. 
—•My Chloris mirk how 
green i.he groves' — Love — 
•It was the charming 
month of May 5 — ' Lassie 
\vi' the lint-white locks' — 
History of the Air ' Ye 
banks and braes o' bonny 
Doon' — James Miller — 
Crke— The black keys- 
Instances of the difficulty 
of tracing the origin of 
ancient airs - - 290 

63. Mr T. to Mr B. With 
three copies of the Scot- 
tish airs - - - 232 

64. Mr B. to Mr T. With 

' O Philly, happy be that . 
day' — starting note — 'Con- 
tented wi' little, and can- 
tie wi' mair" — ' Canst thou 
leave me thus, my Katv'— 
(Thereplv, • Stay my Wil- 
lie, yet believe me,' in a 
note) — Stock and horn 293 

65. MrT. to Mr B. Praise 
— Desires more songs of 
the humorous cast — Means 



Page 

| ' The Soldier's Return' 295 
65. Mr B. to Mr T. With 

1 My Nannie's awa' 295 

67 Mr B. to MrT. 1735. 
With • For a' that an' a' 
• that,' and ' Sweet fa's the 
j eve on Craigiebnrn' 296 

6S. MrT. to MrB. Thanks 297 

69. Mr B. to Mr T. « O 
Lassie, art thon sleeping 
vet,' and the Answer 297 

70. Mr B. to Mr T. ' Dis- 
praise of Ecciefech.au' 297 

71. MrT. to Mr B. Thanks 297 

72. Mr B. to Mr T. 'Ad- 
dress to the Woodlark' — 
'On Chloris being ill'— 
' Their groves o' sweet 
myrtle,' 6cc. — « Twas na 
her bonny blue ee,' &cc. 29S 

73. Mr T. 'to Mr B. With 
Allan's design from ' The 
Cottar's Saturday Night' 2S9 

74. Mr B. to Mr T. Witfi 
' How cruel are the pa- 
rents.' and « Mark vonder 
pomp of costly fashion' 299 

75. MrB. to MrT. Thanks 
for Allan's designs 299 

76. MrT. to MrB. Com- 
pliment - - - 299 

77. Mr B. to Mr T. With 
an improvement in 'Whis- 
tle and I'll come to yon, 
my lad' — ' O this is no my 
ain lassie' — « Now Spring 
has clad onr groves in 
greeu' — ' O bonny was yon 
rosie brier' — ''Tis friend- 
ship's pledge, my young, 
fair friend - - 300 



7?. Mr T. to Mr B. Intr.- 
dncing Dr Brianton 3 

79. MrB. to Mr T. « F r- 
loru my love, uo conir- r: 

80. Mr B.to MrT. ' L. .-. 
May a braw,' &c— • WI 
why teil thy lover,' a in 

81. MrT. to Mr B. - 

82. Mr T. to Mr B. 179 
After an awful pause 3 J 

S3. MrB. to MrT. Thank* 
for P. Pindar. Ssc.— « H: 
for a lass wi' a tocher' M 

84. MrT. to Mr B. Altai 
has designed some plates 
for an Svo edition 

85. Mr B. to Mr T. .- 
rlicted by sickness, b I 
pleased with Mr A. .a: - 
etchings * 

85. Mr T. to Mr B. Syr, - 
patby — encouragement 30 

87. Mr B. to MrT. Wi(fl 
• Here's a health to ane 1 
lo'e dear" - - SO 

38. Mr B. to Mr T. Intro- 
ducing Mr Lewars — H;_ 
taken a fancy to review his 
son^s — hopes to recover ■ 

?9. MrB. to MrT. Dread- 
ing the horrors of a jai., 
solicits the advance t 
five pounds, and enclose, 
' Fairest maid on Devo.. 
banks' 

K>. Mr T. to Mr B. Sym- 
pathy—Advises a volume 
of poetry to be published 
by subscription: Pope put 
Kshed the Liad so - p 



LIFE 



ROBERT BURNS. 



PREFATORY REMARKS. 

THOUGH the dialect in winch many of the 
happiest effusions of Robert Burns are com- 
posed, be peculiar to Scotland, jet his reputa- 
tion lias extended itself beyond the limits of 
that country, and his poetry nas been admired 
us the offspring of original gen. us, by persons 
of taste in every p^rt f the sister islands. Tne 
interest excited by his early death, and the dis- 
tress of his infant family, "have been felt in a 
remarkable manner wherever his writings hava 
been known : and these posthumous volumes, 
■which give to the world his works complete, 
Hud which, it is hoped, may rai = e hi* widow 
and children from penury, are printed and pub- 
lished in England. It seems -roper, therefore, 
to write ihe .Memoirs of his life, not with the 
-view of their being rend by Scotchmen only. 
But also by natives of Eog and, and of other 
countries where the English language is spoken 
or understood. 

Kobtrl Curii9 was in reality what he has 
been represented to be, a Scottish pea ant. 
To render the incidents of his humble story 
generally intelligible, it seems, ther -fore, ad- 
visable 10 prefix some observations on the char- 
acter and situation of the order to which he 
belonged,— a class of men distinguished by many 
peculiarities: by this means we shall form a 
more correct notion of the advantages with 
which be started, and of tbe obstacles which he 

tish peasantry will not, perhaps, be found 
unworthy of attention in other respects; and 
the subject is in a great measure new. Scot- 
land has produced persons of high distinction 
in every branch of philosophy and literature; 
and her history, while a separate and indepen- 
dent nation, 'lias been successfully explored. 
Hut the present character ol the people was not 
then formed ; the nation then presented features 
similar to ihose which the feudal system and 
the catholic religion had diffused over Europe, 
modified, indeed, by the peculiar nature of ber 
territory and climate. The Reformation, by 
which such important changes were produced 
mi lite national character, was speedily folio wed 
by the Accession of the Scottish nionarchs to 
thrpoe; and the period which 
elapsed from that accession to the Union, has 
becu rendered memorable, chiefly by those 



bloody convulsions in which both divisions of 
the island were involve!, a' d which, in a con- I 
degree, conceded from the eye cf t!;e 



the gradual 



the 



the teat of two unsuccessful attempts to restore 
the House of Stuart to the throne, has enjoyed 
a comparative tranquility ; and it is sir.ee this 
period 'hat the present character of her peasan- 
try has been in a great measure formed, though 
the political causes affecting it are to be (raced 
to the previous acts of her separate legislature. 
A slight acquaintance with the peasantry of 
Scotland, will serve to convince an unpreju- 
diced ol server, that they possess a degree of 
i: teiligeuce not generally found among the s una 
Class of men in the other countries of Europe. 
In the very humblest condition of the Scottish 
p^isants, every one ear. re:. J, r.nd an.! ic"- n* 
me more or less skilled in wrifii- r.: .:' ; ri-ii- 
rnelic ; and under ihe disguise .if their uncouth 
appearance, and of : . :rs and 

dialect, a stranger wil disc ier that Chej 
Bess a curiosity, and have obta 

These advantages they owe to the legal pro- 
vision made by the parliament of Scotland iu 
1646, for the establishment cf a school in 
every parish throughout the kingdom, for tho 
express purpose of educating the poor; a law 
which may challenge comparison with at.-J act 
of legislation to be found iu the records of his- 
tory, whether we cons der the wisdom cf the 
ends in view, the simplicity of the m-aus em- 
ployed, or the provisions made to render these 
means effectual to their purpose. This excel- 
lent statute was repealed on the accession of 
Ch tries II. in lofjO, together with all tho 
other laws {.issed during the commonwealth, 
as not being sanctioned by the royal assent. It 
slept during the reigns of Charles and James, 

by the Scott sh parliament. "r.ti.:r the Revolution 

subject, its effects on the national character 
may be considered to have commenced about 
the period of the Union; and doubtless it co- 
operated with the peace and security aris vj 
from that happy event, in producing the ex- 
traordinary change in favour of industry R3d 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



good morals, which the character of the com- 
mon people of Scotland has since undergone. * 



* The importance of the national establish- 
ment of parish schools in Scotland will justify 

a short account of the legislative provisions res- 
pecting it, especially as the subject has escaped 
the notice of all the historians. 

By an act of the king (James TI.) and privy 
council, of the 10th of December, 1616, it was 
recommended to the bishops to dealt and travel 
with the heritors (land proprietors), and the 
inhabitants of the respective parishes in their 
respective dioceses, towards the fixing upon 
•'some certain, solid, and sure course" for 
settling and entertaining a school in each 
parish. This was ratirieu by a statute of Char. 
I. (the act, ld33, chap. 5. ) which empowered 
the bishop, with the consent of the heritors of 
a parish, or of a majority of the inhabitants, if 
the heritors refused to attend the meeting, to 
-assess every plough of laud (that is, every 
farm, in proportion to the number of ploughs 
upon it) with a certain sum for establishing a 
6chool. This was an ineffectual provision, as 
depending on the consent and pleasure of the 
heritors and inhabitants. Therefore a new 
order of things was introduced by Stat. 1646, 
chap. 17, which obliges the heritors and minis- 
ter of fetch parish to meet and assess the several 
heritors with the requisite sum for building a 
school-house, and to elect a school-master, and 
modify a salary for him in all time to covne. 
The salary is ordered not to be under one 
hi_ndred, nor above two hundred merks, that 

L. 5, lis. l|d- nor aboye L. U,'L. 3d. and 
the assessment is to be laid on the land in the 
same proportion as it is rated for the support of 
the clergy, and as it regulates the payment of 
the land-tax. But in case the heritors of any 



Scotland is S77 ; and if we allow the salary ot 
a schoolmaster in each to be, on an average, 
seven pounds Sterling, the amount of the legal 
provision will be L. 6139 Sterling. If we sup- 
pose the wagej paid by the scholars to amount 
to twice this'sum, which is probably beyond 
the truth, the total of the expences among 
1.526,-192 persons (the whole population of 
Scotland) of this most important establishment 
will be L. 18,417. But on this, as well as on 
other subjects respecting Scotland, accurate in- 
formation may soon be expected from Sir John 
Sinclair's Analysis of his Statistics, which will 
complete the immortal monument he has rear- 
ed to his patriotism. 

The benefit arising in Scotland from the in- 
struction of the poor, was soon felt ; and by an 
act of the British parliament, 4 Geo. I. chap. 
6, it is enacted, " that of the moneys arising 
from the sale of the Scottish estates, forfeited 
in the rebellion of 1715, L. 2, 000 sterling shall 
be converted into a capital stock, the interest of 
which shall be laid out in erecting and main- 
taining schools in the Highlands. The Society 
for propagating Christian Knowledge, incor- 
porated in 1709, have applied a large part of 
their fond for the same purpose. By their re- 
port, l=t May, 1795, the annual sum employed 
by them, in" supporting their schools in the 
Highlands and Islands, was L.3,913, 19s. 
lOd. in which are taught the English language, 
reading and writing, and the principles of re- 
ligion. The schools of the society are addi- 
tional to the legal schools, which, from the 
great extent of many of the Highland parishes, 
were found insufficient. Besides these estab- 
lished schools, the lower classes of people in 
Scotland, where the parishes are large, often 
combine together, and establish private schools 
of their o 



is that Burns 



parish, or the majority of them, should fail 

discharge this duty, then the persons forming _. 

•what is called the" Comm \ttee of Supply of the i received the principal part of his education. So 

county, (consisting of the principal landholders) convinced indeed are the poor people of Scot- 

or any fivt of them, are authorised bv the statute ; land, Ly experience, of the benefit of instruction 

to impose the assessment instead of them, on | to their children, that though they may often 

the representation of the presbytery in which | find it dimcult to feed and clothe them, some 



the parish is situated. To secure the choice of 
a proper teacher, the right of election by the 
heritors, by a statute passed in 1693, chap. 22, 
is made subject to the review and control of the 
presbytery of the district, who have the ex- 
amination of the person proposed committed to 
them, both as to his qualifications as a teacher, 
and as to his proper deportment in the office 
=when settled in it. The election of the heritors 
is therefore only a presentment of a person for 
the approbation of the presbytery ; who, if they 
find him unfit, may declare his incapacity, and 
thus oblige them to elect anew. So far is 
stated on unquestionable authority.* 

The legal salary of the schoolmaster was not 
inconsiderable at the time it was fixed ; but by 
the decrease in the value of money, it is i.ow 
certainly inadequate to its object; and it is 
painful to observe, that the landholdt 
Scotland rented the humble appli 
schoolmasters to the legislature for its incrta: 
a few years ago. The number of parishes 



kind of school-instruction they almost always 
procure them. 

The influence of the school establishment of 
Scotland on the peasantry of that country, 
seems to have decided by experience a question 
of legislation of the utmost importance: 
whether a system of national instruction for 
the poor be* favourable to morals and good 
government ? In the year 169S, Fletcher of 
Saitouu declared as follows: "There are at 
this day in Scotland, two hundred thousand 
people beszing from door to door. And though 
the number ot them be perhaps double to what 
it was formerly, bv reason of this present great 
distress (a famine then prevailed) yet in all 
times there have been about one huudred thou- 
sand of those vagabonds who have lived without 
any regard or subjection either to the laws of 
the land, or even those of God and Natuie; 
fathers incestuously accompanying with their 
own daughter.-, the son with the mother, ano 
the broth-r with the sister. " He goes on to 
say, that no magistrate ever could discover tnat 
Tvtler, and ; they had ever been baptized, or in what way 
1 ouein a hundred went out ol '.he world, lie 



n of the 



BURNS PREFATORY REMARKS. 



ed, which may be called its school-establish- 
ment. The clergyman, being every where 
resident in his particular parish, becomes the 
natural patron and superiutendant of the parish 



accuses them as frequently guilty of robbery, 
and sometimes of murder : " In years of plen- 
ty," says he v «• many thousands of them meet 
together in the mountains, where they feast and 
riot for many days ; and at country weddings, 
markets, burials, and other public occasions, 
they are to be seen, both men and women, per- 
petually drunk, cursing, blaspheming, and 
lighting together. "* This high-minded states- 
man, of whom it is said by a contemporary, 
*« that he would lose his life readily to save his 
country, and would not do abase thing to serve 
it, " thought the evil so great that he proposed 
as a remedy, the revival of domestic slavery, 
according to the practice of his adored republics 
in the classic ages ! A better remedy has been 
found, which in the siieni lapse of a century 
has proved effectual. The statute of 1696, 
tiie noble legacy of the Scottish Parliament to 
their country, began soon after this to operate ; 
and happily, as the minds of the poor received 
instruction, the Union opened new channels of 
industry, and new iields of action to their view. 
At the present day there is perhaps no coun- 
try in Europe, in which, in proportion to its 
population, so small a number of crimes fall 
under the chastisement of the criminal law, as 
Scotland. We have the best authority for 

preceding the year 1797, the executions in that 
ili\ision of the island did not ainouut to six 
annually ; and one quarter -sessions for the 
town of .Manchester only, has sent, according 
to Mr Hume, more felo'ns to the plantations, 
than all the judges of Scotland usually do in 
the space of a year.-j- It might appear invi- 
dious to attempt a calculation of the many 
thousand individuals in Manchester and its 
vicinity who can neither read nor write. A 
majority of those who suffer the punishment 
of death for their crimes in every part of Eng- 
land are, it is believed, in this miserable state 

There is now a legal provision for parochial 
schools, or rather for a school in each of the 
different townships into which the country is 
divided, in several of the northern states of 
North America. They are, however, of recent 
origin there, excepting in New England, where 
they were established in the last century, pro- 
bably about the same time as in Scotland, and 
by the same religious sect. In the Protestant 
Cantons of Switzerland, the peasantry have 
the advantage of similar schools, though estab- 
lished and endowed in a different manner. 
This is also the case in certain districts in 
England, particularly, in the northern parts of 
Yorkshire and of Lancashire, and in the coun- 
ties of Westmoreland and Cumberland. 

A law, providing for the instruction cf the 
poor, was passed by the Parliament of lie- 
land j but the fund was diverted from its pur- 



* Political Works of Andrew Fletcher, 
octavo, London, 1737, p. 144. 

+ Hume's Commentaries on the Laws of 
Scotland; Introduction p. 50. 



school, and is enabled in various ways to pro- 
mote the comfort of the teacher, and the profi- 
ciency of the scholars. The teacher himself is 
often a candidate for holy orders, who, during 
the long couise <,f study and probation required 
in the Scottish church, renders the time which 
can be spared from his professional studies, 
useful to others as well as to himself, by assum- 
ing the respectable character of a schoolmaster. 
It is common for the established schools, even 
in the country parishes of Scotland, to enjoy 
the means of classical instruction ; and many 
of the farmers, and some even of the cottagers, 
submit to much privation, that they may obtain, 
for one of their sons at least, the precarious 
advantage of a learned education. The difficulty 
to be surmounted, arises, indeed, not from the 
expense of instructing their children, Lut from 
the charge of supporting them. In the country 
parish schools, the English language, writing, 
and accounts, are generally taught at the rate 
of six shillings, and Latin at the rale of ten or 
twelve shillings per annum. In the towns, the 
prices are somewhat higher. 

It would be improper in this place to inquire 
minutely into the degiee of instruction received 
at these seminaries, or to attempt any precise 
estimate of its effects, either en the individuals 
who are the subjects of this instruction, or on 
the community to which they belong. That it 
is on the whole favourable to industry and 
morals, though doubtless with some individual 
exceptions, seems to be proved by the most 
striking and decisive experience ; and it is 
equally clear, that it is the cause of that spirit 
of emigration and of adventure so prevalent 
among the Scotch. Knowledge has, by Lord 
Verulau), been denominated power ; by others 
it has, with less propriety, been denominated 
virtue or happiness: we may with confidence 
consider it as motion. A human being, in pro- 



pose, and the measure was entirely frustrated. 
Prok Pudor 1 

The similarity of character between the 
Swiss and the Scotch, and between the Scotch 
and the people of New England, can scarcely 
be overlooked. That it arises in a great meas- 
ure from the similarity of their institutions for 
instruction, cannot be questioned. It is no 
doubt increased by physical causes. AVith a 
superior degree of instruction, each of these 
nations possesses a country that may be said 
to be sterile, in the neighbourhood of countries 
comparatively rich. Hence emigrations and 
the other effects on conduct and character 
which such circumstances naturally produce. 
This subject is in a high degree curious. The 
points of dissimilarity between these nations 
might be traced to their causes also, and the 
whole investigation would perhaps admit of an 
approach to certainty in our conclusions, to 
which such ..nquiries seldom lead. How much 
superior in morals, in intellect, and in happi- 
ness, the peasantry of those parts of England 
are who have opportunities of instruction, to 
the same class in other situations, those who 
inquire into the subject will speedily discover. 
The peasantry of Westmoreland, and of tha 
other districts mentioned above, if their physi- 
cal and moral qualities be taken together, nre, 
in the opinion of the Editor, superior tv> the 
P'.a.-p.n'n of any part of the island. 



DIAMOND CABINET LIES-MI Y. 



portion as he is informed, has his wishes en- 
larged, as well as the means of gratifying those 
wishes. He may be considered as taking with- 
in the sphere of his vision a larger portion of 
the globe on which we tread, and discovering ad- 
vantages at a greater distanceon its surface. His 
desires or ambition, once excited, are stimulated 
by his imagination ; and distant and uncertain 
objects, giving freer scope to the operation of 
this faculty, often acquire, in the mind of the 
youthful adventurer, an attraction from their 
very distance and uncertainty. If, therefore, a 
great degree of instruction be given to the 
peasan'ry of a country comparatively poor, in 
the neighbourhood of other countries rich in 
natural and acquired advantages ; and if the 
barriers be removed that kept them separate ; 
emigration from the former to the latter will 
take place to a certain extent, by laws nearly 
as uniform as those by which heat diffuses itself 
among surrounding bcaus, or water finds its 
level when left to its natural course. By the 
articles of the Union, the barrier was broken 
down which divided '.he two British nations, 
and knowledge a.'id poverty poured the ad' 
turous natives of the north over the fertile p! 
of England, and more especially, over the colo- 
nies which she had settled in the East and in 
the "West. The stream of population < 
to flow from the north to the south ; for the 
causes that originally impelled it, continue to 
operate ; and the richer country is constantly 
invigorated by the accession of an informed 
and hardy race of men, educated in poverty, 
and prepared for hardship and danger, patien 
of labour, and prodigal of life. * 



* It has been supposed, that Scotland is 
populous ar.d less improved on account of this 
emigration ; but such conclusions are doubtful 
if not wholly fallacious. The principle ( 

of its power ; marriage is every where retarded 
beyond the period pointed out by nature, by the 
difficulty of supporting a family; and this ob- 
stacle is greatest in long settled communities. 
The emigration of a part of a people facilitates 
the marriage of the rest, by producing a rela- 
tive increase in the means of subsistence. The 
arguments of Adam Smith, for a free export of 
corn, are perhaps applicable with less exception 
to the free export of people. The more certain 
the vent, the greater the cultivation of the soil. 
This subject has been well investigated by Sir 
James Stewart, whose principles have "been 
expanded and farther illustrated in a late truly 
philosophical Essay on Population. In fact", 
Scoland has increased in the number of its 
inhabitants in the last forty years, as the Statis 
tics of Sir John Sinclair ck-ar'.v prove, but net 
in the ratio that some had supposed. The ex- 
tent of the emigration of the Scots may be cal- 
culated with some degree of confidence from the 
proportionate number of the two sexes in Scot- 
land ; a point that may be established pretty 
exactly by an examination of the invaluabte 
Statistics already mentioned. If we suppose 
that there is an equal number of male and 
female natives of Scotland, alive somewhere or 
other, the excess by which the females exceed 
the males in their own country, may be consid- 
ered to be equal to the unrobe] l 



The preachers of the Reformation in Scot- 
nd were disciples of Calvin, and brought 
ith tuEm the temper as well as the tenets' of 
..jat celebrated heresiarch. The presbyterian 
! form of worship and of church government was 
■ endeared to the people, from its being establish- 
! ed by themselves. It was endeared to them, 
I also, by the struggle it had to maintain with 
the Catholic and the Protestant episcopal 
churches, over both of which, after a hundred 
| years of fierce, end sometimes bloody conten- 
j tion, it finally triumphed, receiving the coun- 
i tenance of government, and the sanction of law. 
; During this long period of contention and of 
suffering, the temper of the people became more 
and mere cL.-tinate and biirotted ; and the nation 
1 received that deen tinre of fanaticism, which 
; coloured their public' transactions as well as 
their private virtues, and of which evident 
traces may be found in our own times. When 
the pub!ie"schoois v, ere established, the instruc- 
tion communicated in them partook of the re- 
- character of the people. Ihe Catechum 
I of the Westminster Divines was the universal 
scho 1-book, and was put into the hands of the 
young p-asant as soon as he had acquired a 
knowledge of his alphabet ; and his first exer- 
cises in the art of reading introduced him to the 
...... - j ._._;..„. „t .i.„ i i„:,.;»n r.iii, 



n faith. 



of theCb 

This practice is continued in our own times. 
After 'the Assembly's Catechism, the Proverbs 
of Solomon, and the New and Cld Testament, 
follow in regular succession ; and the scholar 
departs, gifted with the knowledge of the 
sacred writings, and receiving their doctrines 
according to the interpretation of the "West- 
minster Confession of Faith. Thus, with the 
instruction of infancy in the schools of Scotland, 
are blended the dogmas of the national church ; 
and liei ce the first and most constant er.ercise 
of inj-ei.uity among the peasantry of Scotland, 
is displayed in religious disputation. "With a 
strong attachment to the national creed, is con- 
joined a bigoted preference of certain forms of 
worship ; the source of which would be altoge- 
ther obscure, if we did not recollect that the 
ceremonies of the Scottish church were formed 
in direct opposition, in every point, to those of 
the church of Rome. 

The eccentricities of conduct, and singulari- 
ties of opinion and manners, which character- 
ized the English sectaries in the last century, 
afforded a subject for the comic muse of Butler, 
whose pictures lose their interest, since their 
archetypes are lost. Some of the peculiarities 
common among the more rigid disciples of 
Calvinism in Scotland, in the present times, 
have given scope to the ridicule of Burns, whose 
humour is equal to Butler's ; and whose draw- 



livinsr out of Scotland. But though the males 
born in Scotland be admitted to be as 13 to 12, 
and though some of the females emigrate as 
well as the males, this mode of calculating 
would probably make the number of expatriated 
Scotchmen, at any one time alive, greater than 
the. truth. The unhealthy climates in which 
they emigrate, the hazardous services in which 
so many of them engage, render the mean life 
of these who leave Scotland (to speak in the 
language of calculators), not perhaps of half 
the viivic of the mean life c! those who remain. 



BL.EN3.— FREiATOR\ RE.MAILK.S. 



s correspond with 
id heuce some of 
c productions are 



of his taste did not ah 
the strength of his genius ; 

rendered until for the light. 

The information and the religious education 
of the peasantry of Scotland, promote sedateuess 
of conduct, and habits of thought and rellection. 
— These good qualities are net counteracted by 
the establishment of poor laws ; which, while 
they reflect credit on the benevolence, detract 
from the wisdom of the English legislature. 
To make a legal provision for the inevitable 
distress of the poor, who by age or disease 
are rendered incapable of labour, may indeed 
seem an indispensable duty of society ; and if, 
in the execution of a plan for this purpose, a 
distinction could be introduced, so as to exclude 
from its benefits those whose sufferings are pro- 
duced by idleness or profligacy, such an insti- 
tution would perhaps be as rational a= humane. 
But to lay a general tax on property, for the 
support of poverty, from whatever cause pro- 
ceeding, is a measure full of danger. It must 
operate in a considerable degree as an incite- 
ment to idleness, and a discouragement to indus- 
try. It takes away from vice and indolence the 
prospect of their most dreaded consequences, 
and from virtue and industry their peculiar 
sanctions. In many cases it must render the 
rise in the price of labour, not a blessing, but a 
curse to the labourer ; who, if there be an ex- 
cess in what he earns beyond his immediate 
necessities, may be expected to devote this ex- 
cess to his present gratification ; trusting to the 
provision made by law for his own and his 
family's support, should disease suspend, or 
death terminate his labours. Happily, in Scot- 
land, the same legislature «hi.:h established a 
system of instruction for the poor, resisted the 
introduction of a legal provision for the support 
of poverty ; the establishment of the first, and 
the rejection of the last, were equally favourable 
to industry and good morals ; and hence it will 
not appear surprising, if the Scottish peasantry 
have a more than usual share of prudence and 
reflection, if they approach nearer than persons 
of their order usually do, to t!ie definition of a 
man, that of "a being that looks before and 
after." These observations must indeed be 
taken with many exceptions. The favourable 
operation of thf causes just mentioned, is coun- 
teracted by others of an opposite tendency ; and 
he subject, if fully examined, would lead to 



di-, 



> ofg 



•nt. 



When the reformation was established ... 
Scotland, instrumental music was banished 
from the churches, as savouring too much of 
" profane minstrelsy. " Instead" of being regu- 
lated by an instrument, the voices of the con- 
gregation are led and directed by a person 
under the name of a precentor ; and the people 
are all expected to join in the tune which he 
chooses for ihe psaim which is to be sung. 
Church-music is therefore a part of the educa- 
tion of the peasantry of Scotland, in which they 
are usually instructed ia the long winter nights 



* Holy Willie's Prayer— Rob the Turner's 
Welcome t., his Basin d Child— r.-)i--iie to J. 
Gowdie -the Holy Tuizie, ^ c . 



by the parish schoolmaster, who is generally 
the precentor, or by itinerant teachers more 
celebrated for their powers of voice. This 
branch of education had, in the last reign, 
fallen into some neglect, but was revived about 
thirty or forty years ago, when the music itself 
was reformed and improved. The Scottish 
system of psalmody is however radically bad. 
Destitute of taste or harmony, it forms a strik- 
ing contrast with the delicacy and pathos of the 
profane airs. Our poet, if will be found, was 
taught church-music, in which, however, he 
made little proiiciency. 

That dancing should also be very generally a 
part of the education of the Scottish peasantry, 
will surprise those who have only seen this de- 
scription of men ; and still more those who 
reflect on the rigid spirit of Calvinism with 
which the nation is so deeply affected, and tu 
which this recreation is so strongly abhorrent. 
The winter is also the season when they acquire 
dancing, and indeed almost all their other in- 
struction. They are taught to dance by persons 
generally of their own number, many of whom 
work at daily labour during the summer 
mouths. The school is usually a barn, and 
the arena for the performers is generally a clay 
floor. The dome is lighted by candles stuck in 
one end of a cloven stick, the other end of 
which is thrust into the wall. Reels, strath- 
speys, country-dances, and hornpipes, are here 
practised. The jig, so much in favour among 
the English peasantry, has no place among 
them. The attachment of the people of Scot- 
land, of every rank, and particularly of the 
peasantry, to this amusement, is very great. 
After the labours of the day are over, young 
men and women walk many miles, in the cold 
and dreary nights of winter, to these country 
dancing-schools ; and the instant that the vio- 
lin sounds a Scottish air, fatigue seems to 
vanish, the toil-bent rustic becomes erect, his 
brighten i 



> thri 



Vith s 



to vibrate with life. These rustic performers 
are indeed less to be admired for grace, than 
for agility and animation, and their accurate 
observance of time. Their modes of dancing, 
as well as their tunes, are common to every 
rank in Scotland, and are now generally 
known. In our own day they have penetrated 
into England, and have "established themselves 
even iu the circle of Royalty. In another 
generation they will be naturalized in every 
part of the island. 

The prevalence of this taste, or rather passion 
for dancing, among a people so deeply tinctured 
with the spirit and doctrines of Calvin, is one 
of those contradictious which the philosophic 
observer so often linds in national character and 
manners. It is probably to be ascribed to the 
Scottish music, which," throughout all its va- 
rieties, is so full of sensibilny, ajid which in its 
livelier strains, awakes those vivid emotions 
that find ia dancing their natural solace and 
relief. 

This triumph of the music of Scotland over 
the spirit of the established religion, has not, 
however, been obtained without long continued 
and obstinate struggles. The numerous sec- 
taries who dissent from the establishment on 
account of the relaxation which they perceive, 
or think they perceive, in the Church, from 
original doctrines and discipline, universally 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY 



conJemn the practice of dancing, and the 
schools -where it is taught: and the more 
elderly and serious part of the people, of every 
persuasion, tolerate rather than approve these 
meetings of the young of both sexes, where 
dancing is practised to their spirit-stirring 
music, where care is dispelled, toil is forgot- 
ten, and prudence itself is sometimes lulled to 
sleep. 

The Reformation, which proved fatal to the 
rise of the other fine arts in Scotland, proba- 
bly impeded, but could not obstruct, the pro- 
gress of its music ; a circumstance that will 
convince the impartial inquirer, that this music 
not only existed previous to that era, but had 
taken a firm hold of the nation ; thus afford- 
ing a proof of its antiquity, stronger than any 
produced by the researches of our antiquaries. 

The impression which the Scottish music 
has made on the people, is deepened by its 
union with the national songs, of which 
various collections of unequal merit are before 
the public. These songs, like those of other 
nations, are many of them humorous, but they 
chiefly treat of love, war, and drinking. Love 
is the subject of the greater proportion. With- 
out displaying the higher powers of the ima- 
gination, they exhibit a perfect knowledge of 
the human heart, and breathe a spirit of affec- 
tion, and sometimes of delicate and romantic 
tenderness, not to be surpassed in modern 
poetry, and which the more polished strains 
of antiquity have seldom possessed. 

The origin of this amatory character in the 
lustic muse of Scotland, or of the greatest 
number of those love-songs themselves, it 
would be difficult to trace ; they have accumu- 
lated in the silent lapse of time, and it is now 
perhaps impossible to give an arrangement of 
them in the order of their date, valuable as 
such a record of taste and manners would be. 
Their present influence on the character of 
the nation is, however, great and striking. 
To them we must attribute, in a great measure, 
the romantic passion which so ofcen character- 
izes the attachments of the humblest of the 
people of Scotland, to a degree, that if wc 
mistake net, is seldom found in f he san.e rank 
of society in other countries. The pictures 
of love aud happiness exhibited in their rural 
songs, are early impressed on the mind of the 
peasant, and are rendered more attractive from 
the music with which they are united. They 
associate themselves with his own youthful 
emotions ; they elevate the object as well as the 
nature of his attachment ; and give to the im- 
pressions of sense the beautiful colours of 
imagination. Hence in the course of his pas- 
sion, a Scottish peasant often exerts a spirit of 
adventure, of which a Spanish cavalier need 
not be ashamed. After the labours of the day 
are over, he sets out for the habitation of his 
mistress, perhaps at many miles distance, re- 
gardless of the length or the dreariness of the 
way. He approaches her in secrecy, under the 
disguise of night. A signal at the doer or win- 
dow, perhaps agreed on, and understood by none 
but her, gives information of his arrival; and 
sometimes it is repeated again and again, 
before the capricious fair oiie will obey the 
summons. But if she favours his addresses, 
6he escapes unobserved, and receives the vows 
of her lover under the gloom of twilight, cr 
the deeper shade of night. Interviews of this 



kind are the subjects of many of the Scottish 
songs, some of the most beautiful of which 
Burns has imitated or improved. In the art 
which they celebrate he was perfectly skilled ; 
he knew and had practised all its mysteries. 
Intercourse of this sort is indeed universal, even 
in the humblest condition of man, in every re- 
gion of the earth. But it is not unnatural to 
suppose, that it may exist in a gseater degree, 
and in a more romantic form, among the 
peasantry of a country who are supposed to be 
more than commonly instructed ; who find in 
their rural songs expressions for their youthful 
emotions ; and in whom the embers of passion 
are continually fanned by the breathings of a 
music full of tenderness and sensibility. The 
direct influence of physical causes on the at. 
tachment between the sexes is comparatively 
small, but it is modified by moral causes beyond 
any other affection of the mind. Cf these, 
music and poetry are the chief. Among the 
snows of Lapland, and under the burning sun 
of Angola, the savage is seen hastening to his 
mistress, and every where he beguiles the 
weariness of his journey with poeiry and song.* 
In appreciating the happiness and virtue of 
a community, there is perhaps no single cri- 
terion on which so much dependence may be 
placed, as the state of the intercourse between 
the sexes. Where this displays ardour of at- 
tachment, accompanied by purity of conduct, 
the character aud the influence of women rise 
in society, our imperfect nature mounts on the 
scale of moral excellence, and from the souroa 
of this single affection, a stream of felicity de- 
scends, which branches into a thousand rivulets 
that enrich and adorn the field of life. Where 
the attachment between the sexes sinks into an 
appetite, the heritage of our species is compar- 
atively poor, and man approaches the condition 
of the brides that perish. "If we could with 
safety indulge the pleasing supposition that 
Fing-'al lived and that Ossicn sung.f" Scot- 
land, judging from this criterion, might be 
considered as ranking high in happiness and 
virtue in very remote ages. To appreciate her 
situation by the same criterion in our own times, 
wculdbe a delicate and difficult undertaking. 
After considering the probable influence of her 
popular songs and her national music, and ex- 
amining how far the effects to be expected from 
these are supported by facts, the inquirer would 
also have to examine the influence of other 
causes, and particularly of her civil and eccle- 
siastical institutions, by which the character, 
and even the manners of a people, though 
silently and slowly, are often powerfully con- 
trolled. In the point of view in which we are 
considering the subject, the ecclesiastical esta- 
blishments of Scotland may be supposed pecu- 
liarly favourable to purity of conduct. The 
dissoluteness of manners among the Catholic 
clergy, which preceded, and in some measure 
produced the Reformation, led to an extraor- 



* The North-American Indians, among 
whom the attachment between the sexes is said 
to be weak, and love, in the purer sense of the 
word, unknown, seem nearly unacquainted 
with the charms cf poetry and music. Ss« 
Weld' s Tcur. 

f GiUxn. 



BU RNS — PREFATORY REMARKS. 



denary strictness on the part of the reformers, 
and especially in that particular in which the 
licentiousness of the clergy had been carried to 
its greatest height— the intercourse between the 
sexes. On this point, as on all others connect- 
ed with austerity of manners, the disciples of 
Calvin assumed a greater severity than those of 
the Protestant episcopal church. The punish- 
ment of illicit connexion between the sexes was, 
throughout all Europe, a province which the 
clergy assumed to themselves ; and the church 
of Scotland, which at the Reformatioc renoun- 
ced so many powers and privileges, at that 
period took this crime under her more especial 
jurisdiction.*— Where pregnancy takes place 
without marriage, the condition of the female 
causes the discovery, and it is on her, therefore, 
in the first instance, that the clergy and elders 
of the church exercise their zeal. After exam- 
ination before the kirk-session touching the 
circumstances of her guilt, she must endure a 
public penance, and sustain a public rebuke 
from the pulpit, for three Sabbaths successively, 
in the face of the congregation to which she 
belongs, and thus have her weakness exposed, 
and her shame blazoned. The sentence is the 
same with respect to the male; but how mueh 
lighter the punishment ! It is well known that 
this dreadful law, worthy of the iron minds of 
Calvin and of Knox, has often led to conse- 
quences, at the very mention of which human 

While the punishment of incontinence pre- 
scribed by the institutions of Scotland, is severe, 
the culprits have an obvious method of avoiding 
it, afforded them by the law respecting mar- 
riage, the validity of which requires neither the 
ceremonies of the church, nor any other cere- 
monies, but simply the deliberate acknowledg- 
ment of each other as husband and wife, made 
by the parlies before witnesses, or in any other 
•way that gives legal evidence of such an ac- 
knowledgment having taken place. And as 



* In the punishment of this offence the 
Church employed formerly the arm of the civil 
power. During the reign of James the Vlth 
(James the First of England), criminal con- 
nexion between unmarried persons was made 
the subject of a particular statute. (See Hume's 
Commentaries on the Laws of Scotland, Vol. ii. 
p. 332.) which, from its rigour, was never 
much enforced, and which has long fallen into 
disuse. When, in tl>3 middle of the last century, 
the Puritans succeeded in the overthrow of the 
monarchy in both divisions of the island, forni- 
eation was a crime against which they directed 
their utmost zeal. It was made punishable 
with death in the second instance (See Black- 
stone, b. iv. chap. 4. No. II.). Happily this 
sanguinary statute was swept away along with 
the other acts of the Commonwealth, on the 
restoration of Charles II. to whose temper and 
manners it must have been peculiarly abhorrent. 
And after the Revolution, when several salutary 
acts passed during the suspension of the mon- 
archy, were re-enacted by the Scottish Parlia- 
ment, particularly that for the establishment of 
parish schools, the statute punishing fornica- 
tion with death, was suffered to sleep in the 
grave of the blern fanatics who had given it 
birth. 



the parties themselves fix the date of their mar- 
riage, an opportunity is thus given to avoid tae 
punishment, and repair the consequences of 
illicit gratification. Such a degree of laxity 
respecting so serious a contract might produce 
much confusion in the descent of property, 
without a still farther indulgence ; but the law 
of Scotland legitimating all children born be- 
fore wedlock, on the subsequent marriage of 1 
their parents, renders the actual date of the 
marriage itself of little consequence. + Mar- 
riages contracted in Scotland without the 
ceremonies of the church are considered as 
irregular, and the parties usually submit to a 
rebuke for their conduct, in the face of their 
respective congregations, which is not, how- 
ever, necessary to render the marriage valid. 
Burns, whose marriage, it will appear, was 
irregular, does not seem to have undergone this 
part of the discipline of the church. 

Thus, though the institutions of Scotland are 
in many particulars favourable to a conduct 
amona: the peasantry founded on foresight and 
reflection, on the subject of marriage the reverse 
of this is true. Irregular marriages, it may 
be naturally supposed, are often improvident 
ones, in whatever rank of society they occur. 
The children of such marriages, poorly endow- 
ed by their parents, find a certain degree of 
instruction of easy acquisition ; but the com- 
forts of life, and the gratifications of ambition, 
they find of more difficult attainment in their 
native soil ; and thus the marriage laws of 
Scotland conspire, with other circumstances, 
to produce that habit of emigration, and spirit 
of adventure, for which the people are so re . 
markable. 

The manners and appearance of the Scottish 
peasantry do not bespeak to a stranger the de- 
gree of their cultivation. In their own country, 
their industry is inferior to that of the same 
description of men in the southern division of 
the island. Industry and the useful arts 
reached Scotland later than England ; and 
though their advance has been rapid th^re. the 
effects produced are as yet far inferior, both in 
reality and in appearance. The Scottish far- 
mers have in general neither the opulence nor 
the comforts of those of England— neither vest 
the same capital in the soil,"nor receive from it 
the same return. Their clothing, their food, and 
their habitation;, are almost everywhere inie- 



■f The legitimation of children, by subsequent 
marriage, became the Roman law under the 
Christian emperors. It was the canon law of 
modern Europe, and has been established in 
Scotland from a very remote period. Thus a 
child born a bastard, if his parents afterwards 
marry, enjoys all the privileges of seniority 
over his brothers afterwards born in weulock. 
In the Parli_raent of Merton, in the reign of 
Henry III. the English clergy made a vigorous 
attempt to introduce this article into the law of 
England, and it was on this occasion that the 
Barons made the noted answer, since so often 
appealed to ; Quod nolunt leges Anglite mufare ; 
q ice hue u.'que usitatce sunt approbate. With 
regard to what constitutes a marriage, the law 
of Scotland, as explained above, differs from 
the Roman law, which required the ceremony 
U> be performed infucie eccLsice. 



DIAMOND CABINET ULBRAEY. 



rior.* Tl eir appearance in these respects cor- 
responds with the appearance of their country ; 
and under the operation of patient industry, 
bolh are improving. Industry and the useful 
arts came later into Scotland than into Eng- 
land, because the security of property came 
later With enures of internal agitation and 
varfare similar to those which occurred to the 
more southern nation, the people of Scotland 

more extensive and destructive spoliation, from 
external war. Occupied in the maintenance 
of their independence against their mere power- 
urs, to this were necessarily saeri- 
liced the arts oi" peace, and at certain periods, 
the flower of their population. And when the 
union of the crowns produced a security from 
national wars with England for the century 
succeeding, the civil wars common to Loth 
the island, and the dependence, 
perhaps the necessary dependence of the Sect 



thos 



the 



erful 



kingdom, counteracted this ad 
the union oi the British nations was not, from 
obvir Us c us' s. immeciiately followed by all the 
bonefcis which it was ultimately destined to 
j-rouuee. At length, however, these benefits 
are distinctly felt, and generally acknowledged. 
Property is secure ; manufactures and com- 
merce increasing, and agriculture is rapidly 
hi proving in Scotland. As yet, indeed, the 
farmers are not, in general, enabled to make 
improvements out cf their own capitals, as in 
England ; but the landholders, who have seen 
and felt the advantages resulting from them, 
contribute towards them with a liberal hand. 



the Scottish soil ; and 

great part of the Lless- 

uid retaining several of 

,-i.t be consi- 



Heneepr 

cumu'utiiig rap; civ 
the !.a io;,. 
ings of English 
their cv... 
cereu, i: . 

their way. To the cultivation of the soil are 
opposed the extent and the strictness of the 
entails: to the improvement of the people, the 
rapttily increasing use of spirituous liquors, a 
detestable practice, which includes in its con- 
sequences almost every evil, physical and mo- 
ral. + The peculiarly social disposition of the 
Scottish peasantry exposes them to this prac- 
tice. This disposition, which is fostered by 

characteristic of the nation at large Though 

the source of many p!< 

by its consequences "the effects of their pati 



* These remarks are confined to the class of 
farmers ; the same corresponding inferiority 
■will not be found in the condition of the cot- 
tagers and labourers, at least in the article of 
food, as those who examine this subject impar- 
tially will soon discover. 

f The amount of the duty on spirits distilled 
in Scotland is now upwards of £.250,000 an- 
nually. In 1777, it did nel reach L. S, 000. 
The rate of the duty has indeed been raised, 
but, making every allowance, the increase of 
consumption must be enormous. This is in- 
dependent of the duty on malt, ic. ui&lt liquor, 
imported spirits, anil wine. 



industry, and frugality lolh Gt hoir.e and 
abroad, cf which these especially who have 
witnessed the pi ogress of Scotsmen in other 
countries, must have known many striking in- 

Since the Union, the manners and language 
of the people of Scotland have no longer a stan- 
dard among themselves, Lut are liied by the 
standard of the nation to which they are united. 
— Though their habits are far from being iieii- 
Lle, ;. et it is evident that their manners and 
dialect are undergoing a rapid change. Even 
the farmers of the present day appeal to have 
less of the peculiarities of the ir com. try in their 
speech, than the men of letters of the Last gene- 
ration. Burn.-, who never left the island, 
nor penetrated farther into England than Car- 
lisle on the one hand, or Newea=t:e on the 
other, had less of the Scottish dialect than 
Hume, who lived for many years in the best 
society of England auu France ; or perhaps 
than KoLcrtson, -who wrote the English lan- 
guage in a style of such purity ; and if he bad 
been in other respects fitted to take a lead in the 
British House of Commons, his pronunciation 
would neither have fettered his eloquence, nor 
deprived it of its due effect. 

A striking particular in the character of the 
Scottish peasantry, is one which it is hoped 
will not Le lost— the strength of their domestic 
attachments. The privations to which many 
parents submit for the good of their children, 
and particularly to obt in for them instruction, 
■which they consider as the chief good, has 
already been noticed. If their children live and 
prosper, they have their certain reward, not 
merely as witnessing, but as sharing of their 
prosperity. Even in the hu:::blest ranks of the 
peasantry, the earnings of the cb 
generally be considered as at the disposal of 
their parents ; perhaps in no country is so large 
a portion of the wages of labour applied to the 
support and comfort of those whose days cf 
labour are past. A similar strength of attach- 
ment extends through all the c onestic relations. 

Cur Doet pa; took hirjelv cf this amia! le cha- 
racterise cf bis humble compters; he was also 
ituied with another striking feature 
which belongs to them, — a partiality for his 
native country, of which many preefs may be 
found in his writing*;. Thi.-, it must Le con- 
fessed, is a very strong and general sentiment 
among the natives of Scotland, differing how- 
ever in its character, according to the character 
of the different minds in which it is found; in 
some appearing a selhsh prejudice, in others a 

I C An attachment to the land of their birth is, 
I indeed, common to all men. It is found among 
• the inhabitants of every region of the earth, 
from the arctic to the antaietic circle, in all the 
vast variety of climate, of surface, of civiliza- 
tion. To analyze this general sentiment, to 
trace it through the mazes of association up to 
the primary afteciion :n which it has its source, 
would neither be a difficult nor unpleasing la- 
i hour. On the first consideration of the subject, 



we should perhaps expect to find this attach- 
ment strong in proportion to the physical 
advantage of the soil ; but inquiry, far" from 
conllrmiug this supposition, seems rather to 

lead to an opposite conclusion In those fertile 

! regions where beneficent nature yields almost 
spontaneously whatever is necessary to human 



eu:;.ns.— riizi'AToi.Y .^^uus, 



■wants, patriotism, as well as every other gene- 
rous seutinient, seems weak and languid. In 

countries less richly endowed, where the com- 
forts, and even necessaries of life, must be pur- 
chased by patient toil, the afiections of the 
mind, as the faculties of the understanding, 
imptove under exertion, and patriotism ilour 
ishes amidst its kindred virtues. Where it is 
necessary to combine for mutual defence as well 
as for the supply of common wants, mutual 
good-will springs from mutual difficulties and 
labours, the social affections unfold themselves, 
and extend from the men with whom we live, 
to the soil in which we tread. It will perhaps 
be found, indeed, that our affections cannot be 
originally called forth, but by objects capable, 
or supposed capable, of feeling our sentiments, 
and of returning them ; but when once excited 
th..-y are strengthened by exercise — they are ex- 
panded by the powers of imagination, and seize 
wore especially on those inanimate puts cf 
creation, whicuform the theatre on which we 
have first felt the alternations of joy and sorrow, 
and first tasted ihe sweets of sympathy and 
regard. If this reasoning be just, the love of 
our country, although modified, and even ex- 
tinguished* in individuals by the chances and 
changes of life, may be presumed, in our gen- 
eral reasonings, to be strong among a people, 
in proportion to their social, and mere especi- 
ally to their domestic affections. In free 
governments it is found more active than iu 
despotic ones, because, as the individual be- 
comes of more consequence in the community, 
the community becomes of more consequence to 
him ; in small states it is generally more active 
than in large ones, for the same reason, and 
also because ihe independence of a small com- 
munity being maintained with difficulty, and 
frequently endangered, sentiments of patriot- 
ism are more frequently excited. In mountain- 
ous countries h is generally found more active 
than in plains, because there the necessities of 
life often require a closer union of the inhabi- 
tants ; and more especially because iu such 
countries, though less populous than plains, the 
inhabitants, instead of being scattered equally- 
over the whole, are usually divided into small 
communities on the sides of their separate val- 
leys, and on the banks of their respective 
streams: situations well calculated to call forth 
and to concentrate the social affections amidst 
scenery that acts most powerfully on the sight, 
and makes a lasting impression on the memory. 
It may also be remarked, that mountainous 



. countries are often peculiaily calculated to 

! nourish sentiments of national pride and inde- 

I pendence, from the influence of history on the 

affections of the mind. In such countries, 



eliort against oppression, 
present the field, of battle, v 
invasion was rolled back, and 
of those rest, who have died i: 



Cicitl, 



J Oi I 



permanent, where the scenery of a country, 
I the peculiar manners of its inhabitants, arid 
J the martial achievements of their ancestors are 
I embodied in national songs, and united to na- 
| tional music. By this combination, the tie* 
tach men to the land of their birth aie 






to the latest per 
with the pleasi 
hope die away. 



and thei 

vith ihe - 



lrv\ 


among 


he natives 


of Seoti 


nd, ev 


tl of 




att-d mii 




ind a p 


rtiaJ 


atlae 


iment to 


the land o 


tln-ir Ln 


th, and 


why 


this i 




gly uiscov 


erable in 


the wri 




of Bu 






the highe 


r puwt 




the u 

Let n 


lderstanding tiie n 


think it a 


super! 


IK. Us 


labour to trace 


the rise a 








acter 


like his 


Born 


n the co 


idition 


of a 


pea- a 


,t, he re 


se by the 1 


orce of h 




into 






I inliucnce 


and in his we 


has 


ex!: a 


ted n 1 




> rarely 


found, 


the 




s of ori 


jinai gem 


is. With 


a deep in- 


sight 






•art, his 




xhi- 


bus i 

and a 


Jlt'v^re 


ers of ima 
embalms, 


th'.'^ecuT 


ar m m 


ays, 


of his 


m-"t ' m 


t to Lis ON 


ay be con 


'nly, b 


T\o 


the e> 


aent'nM 


on.' lure 


ai'hi ,U 




t= of 


his' In 


e, caimo 


ir will pre 


vent usfr 







ings which 

justice forbids us to conceal; we will tread 
lightly over his yet warm ashes, and respect 
the laurels that shelter his untimely grave. 



LIFE 



ROBERT BURNS. 



ROBERT BURNS was, as is -well known, the 
■on of a farmer in Ayrshire, and afterwaids 
himself a farmer there ; but, having been unsuc- 
cessful, he was about to emigrate to Jamaica. 
He had previously, however, attracted some 
notice .by his poetical talents in the vicinity 
where he lived; and having published a small 
volume of his poems at Kilmarnock, this «' 
jpon him more general attention. In cc 
^uence of the encouragement he received, he 
repaired to Edinburgh., and there published, by 
subscription, an improved and enlarged edition 
of his poems, which met with extraordinary- 
success. By the profits arising from the sale 
of this edition, he was enabled to enter on a 
farm in Dumfries-shire ; and having married a 
person to whom he had been long attached, he 
retired to devote the remainder of his life to 
agriculture. He was again, however, unsuc- 
cessful ; and, abandoning his form, he removed 
into the town of Dumfries, where he filled an 
inferior office in the excise, and where lie ter- 
minated his life in July, 1796, in his thirty- 
eighth year. 

The strength and originality of his genius 
procured him the notice of many persons dis- 
tinguished in the republic of letters, and, among 
others, that of Dr Moore, well known for his 
Vietcs of Society arid Manners on the Continent 
of Europe, for his Zcluco, and various other 
works. To this gentleman our poet addressed 
a letter, after his first visit to Edinburgh, giv- 
ing a history of his life, up to the period of his 
writing. In a composition never intended to 
see the light, elegance or perfect correctness of 
composition will not be expected. These, how- 
ever, will be compensated by the opportunity of 
seeing our poet, as he gives the incidents of his 
Jife, unfold the peculiarities of bis character 
with all the careless vigour and open sincerity 
of his mind. 

" Sir, Mauchline, 2d Augvsi, 1787 

" For some months past I have been ram- 
bling over the country ; but I am now confined 
with some lingering" complaints, originating, 
as I take it, in the stomach. To divert my 
spirits a little in this miserable fog of ennui, I 
have taken a whim to give you a history of 
myself. My name has made "some little noise 
in this country ; you have done me the honour 
lo interest yourself very warmly in my behalf ; 



; and 1 think a faithful account of what charac* 
j ter of a man I am, and how I came by that 
j character, may perhaps amuse you in an idle 
i moment. I will give vou an honest narrative ; 
! though I know it wi'll be often at mv own 
expense;— for I assure you, sir, I have, like 
| Solomon, whose character, except in the trifling 
affair of wt'sdo/n, I sometimes think I resemble, 
— I have, I say, like him, turned my eyes to 
behold madness and folly, and like him, too, 
frequently shaken hands with their intoxicating 
friendship. . . . After you have perused 
these pages, should you think them trifling and 
impertinent, I only beg leave to tell you, that 
the poor author wrote them under some twitch- 
ing qualms of conscience, arising from a suspi. 
cion that he was doing what he ought net to 
do ; a predicament he has more than once been 
in before. 

" I have not the most distant pretensions to 
assume that character which the pye coated 
guardians of escutcheous call a Gentleman. 
When at Edinburgh last winter, 1 got ac- 
quainted in the Herald's Office; and, lcoking 
through that granary of honours, 1 there found 
almost every name in the kingdom, but for me, 

" IMy ancient but ignoble blood 
Has crept through scoundrels ever since the 
flood. " 

Gules, purpure, srgent,.&c. quite disowned me. 

"Mv father was of the north of Scotland, 
the son of a farmer, and was thrown by early 
misfortunes on the world at large ; where, 
after many gears' wanderings and sojournings, 
he picked up a pretty large quantity of obser- 
vation and experience, to which I am indebted 
fur most of my little pretensions to wisdom — I 
have met with few who understood men, their 
manners, arid their icays, equal to him ; but 

ul Lorn, ungainly integrity, and headlong, 



n.gov 



nable ii 



• the first 



very 



s of my 1; 






worthy gentleman of small estate in the neigh- 
bourhood of Ayr. Had he continued in that 
station, I must have marched off to be one of 
the little underlings about a farm-house ; but 
it was his dearest wish and prayer to have it in 
his power to keep his children under his own 



12 



LLAXGXD CABINET LIBRARY 



eve till they could discern between good and 
evil ; so, with the assistance of his generous 
ma=ter, my father ventured on a small farm on 
his estate. At those years I was by no means 
a favourite with any body. I was a good deal 
noted for a retentive memory, a stubborn sturdy 
something in my disposition, and an enthusi- 
astic idiot piety. I say idiot piety, because I 
was then but* a child. Though it cost the 
schoolmaster some thrashings, I made an 
excellent English scholar ; and by the time I 

substantives, verbs, and participles. In my 
infant and boyish days, too, I owed much to an 
c'.d woman who reside! ;•: the family, remarka- 
ble for h r ignorance, credulity, and supersti- 
tion. She had, I suppose, the largest collection 
iu the country of tales aud songs concerning 
devils, ghosts, fairies, brownies, witches, war- 
locks, spunkies, kelpies, elf-candies, dead- 
lights, wraiths, apparitions, cautraips, giants, 
enchanted towers, dragons, and other trum- 
pery. This cultivated the Jateut seeds of 
poetry ; I lit had so strong an effect on my 
imagination, that to this hour, in my nocturnal 
r_ er, I sometimes keep a sharp look- 



be 



id though nobody ca 
lore sceptical thau I am in" such matter 
It often . philosophy 



1 met with these pieces in Mi 

Collection, one of my school-books. T he two 

first books I ever read iu private, and which 

:e, were, The Life 
and Toe History of Sir WOi 

Hannibal gave my young ideas such a turn, 
that I used to strut in raptures up and down 
after the recruiting drum and Lag-pipe, and 
wish myself tail enough to be a soldier ; while 
the story of Wallace poured a Scottish pre- 
judice into ray veins, which will boil along 
there till the llood-gates of life shut iu eternal 

*• Polemical divinity about this time was 

■ putting the country half mad ; and 1, ambitious 

of shining in conversation parties ou Sundays, 

t ins, at funerals, .vc. used, a few 

years afterwards, to puzzle Calvinism with so 

.":■ ition, th-t I raised a hue 

and cry of heresy against me, which has not 

" >Jy vicinity to Ayr was of some advantage 
tome. My social disposition, when not checked 
by some niociriction of spirited pride, u •_-, 
like our catechism definition of infinitude, 
aids or limits. 1 formed sever-* 1 con. 
nections with other yonnkers who possessed 
superior advantages, ths youngling actors, who 
were bu..v in the rehearsal of parts in which 
they were shortly to appear on the stage of life, 
where, alas I I was destined to drudge behind 
L is not commonly at this green 
age that our \ s-."? gentry ha- e .. 



the immense distance between them and their 
ragged p!ay r feliows. It takes a few dashes 
into the world, to give the young zreat man 
that proper, decent, uuuoticing disregard for 
the poor, insignificant, stupid devils, the 
mechanics and peasantry around him, who 
were perhaps born in the same village. My 
young superiors never insulted the clouierly 
appearance of my plough-Icy carcase, the two 
extremes of which were often exposed to all the 
inclemencies of the seasons. They would give 
me stray volumes of Looks : among them, even 
then, I could pick up some observations ; and 
one, whose heart I am sure not even the Simmy 
Begum scenes have tainted, helped me to a little 
French. Parting with these my young friends 
and benefactors, as they occasionally went off 
for the East or West Indies, was often to me a 
sore affliction ; but 1 was scon called to more 
serious evils. My father's generous master 
aied ; the farm proved a ruinous bargain ; 
and, to clench the misfortune, we fell into the 
hands of a factor, who sat for the picture 1 
have drawn of one in my Tale of Twa Dogs. 
Sty father was advanced in life when he mar- 
ried ; 1 was the eldest of seven children ; and 
he, worn out by early hardships, was unfit for 
iatour. My father's spirit was socn irritated, 
but not easily broken. There was a freedom in 
his lease iu two years more ; aud to weather 
these two years, we retrenched our expenses. 
We lived very poorly ; I was a dexterous 
ploughman for my age ; and the next eldest to 
me was a brother (Gilbert) who could drive 
the plough very well, and help me to thrash 
the corn. A novel-writer might perhaps have 
viewed these scenes with some satisfaction ; 
but so did not I ; my indignation yet boils at 

the recollection of the s 1 factor's insolent 

threatening letters which used to set us all in 

" This kind of life— the cheerless gloom of a 

hermit, with the unceasin? moil of a gallev- 

. me to in; sixteenth year ; a Utile 

before which period I first committed tin 



- at 
of 

coupling a man and woman together as part- 
ners in the labours of harvest. Iu my 
fifteenth autumn my partner was a bewitching 
creature a year younger than myself. My 
scarcity of "English denies me tue power of 
doing her justice ia that language; but you 
know the Scottish idiom —she was a bon.-.ie. 
sweet, sonsie lass. In short, she altogether, 
unwittingly to herself, initiated me in that 
delicious passion, which, in spite of acid dis- 
appointment, gin-horse prudence, and book- 
worm philosophy, I hold to be the first of 
human joys, our dearest blessing here below I 
How she caught the contagion, I cannot tell : 
you medical people talk much of infection from 
breathing the same air, the touch, &c. ; but I 
never expressly said I loved her. Indeed, I 
did not know myself why 1 liked so much to 
loiter behind with her, when returning in the 
evening from our labours ; why the tones of 
her voice made my heart-strings thrill like an 
. ; Ek»lian harp : and particularly why my pulse 
beat such a furious ratan w hen I looked and 
fingered over her little hand to pick out the 
cruel nettle-stings and thistles. Among her 
: ..-.z qualities, she sung sweetly ; 
and it was her favourite reel, to which I 
attempted giving an embodied vehicle in 1 by inc. 



BURNS.— LIFE. 



13 



I was not so presumptuous as to imagine that I 
could make verses like printed ones, composed 
by men who had Greek and Latin ; but my girl 
sung a song, which was said to be composed 
by a small countiy laird's son, on one of his 
father's maids, with whom he was in love! 
and 1 saw no reason why I might not rhyme 
as well as he ; for, excepting that he could 
smear sheep, and cast peats, his father living 
in the moorlands, he had no more scholar-craft 
than myself.* 



* It may interest some persons to peruse the 
first poetical production of our Bard, and it is 
therefore extracted from a kind of common - 

Slace bock, which he seems to have begun in 
is twentieth year ; and which he entitled, 
«■ Observations, Hints, Songs, Scraps of 
Poetry. <$-c. byRoia-.t Burness, a man who 
had little art in making money, and still less in 
keeping it ; but was, however, a man of some 
sense, a great deal of honesty, and unbounded 
good-will to every creature, rational or irra- 
tional. As he was but little indebted to a 
scholastic education, and bred at a plough-tail, 
his performances must be strongly tinctured 
■with his unpolished rustic way of life ; but as, I 
believe, they are reaily his own, it may be some 

Dature, to see how a ploughman thinks and 
feels, under the pressure of love, ambition, 
anxiety, grief, with the like cares and passions, 
which, however diversified by the modes and 
manners of life, operate pretty much alike, I 
believe, in all the species. " 

•* Pleasing, when youth is long expired, to 

The forms our pencil or our pen design 'd, 

Such was our youthful air, and shape, and face, 

Such the soft iaiage of our youthful mind. " 



This MS. book, to which our poet prefixed 
this account of himself, and of his intention in 
preparing it, contains several cf his earlier 



"Thus -with me began love and poetry; 
■which at times have been my only, and till 
within the last twelve months have been my 
highest enjoyment. My father struggled on till 
he reacned the freedom in his lease, when he 
entered on a larger farm, about ten miles far- 
ther in the country. The nature of the bargain 
he made was such as to throw a little ready 
money into his hands at the commencement of 
his lease: otherwise theariair would have been 
impracticable. For four years we lived com- 
fortably here; but a difference commencing 
' and his landlord, t 



aiW 



; ye: 



nng i 



the 



s ju=t saved 



Time, - 



a unmarried. " 



C, once I loved a bonnie lass, 

Ay, and I love her still. 
And whilst that virtue warms my breast, 

I'll love my handsome Nell. 

Tal ial de ral, ejc. 

As bennie lasses I liae seen, 

And mony lull as braw, 
But for a modest gracefu' mien 

The like I never saw. 

A bonnie lass, I will confess, 

Is pleasant to the e'e, 
But without some better qualities 

She 's no a lass for me. 

But Nelly's looks are blithe and sweet, 

And what is Lest of a", 
Her reputation was complete, 

And fair without a Haw. 



ortex of liti 
from the horrors of a jai 
which, after two years' promises, kindly 
stepped in, and carried him away, to where tits 
tricked cease from troubling, and where the 
weary are at rest 

" It is during the time that we lived on this 
farm that my Little story is most eventful. I 
was, at the beginning of this period, perhaps 
the most ungainly, awkward boy in the parish 
— 1:0 sotiiaire was less acquainted with the 
ways of the world. What I knew of ancient 
story was sobered from Salmon 's and Guthrie's 
geographical grammars ; and the ideas I had 
formed of modern manners, of literature, and 
criticism, 1 got from the Spectator. These, 
■ with Pope's Works, somepIa\s of Shakspurre, 
Tull and Dickson on Agriculture, the Pantheon, 
Locke's Essay on the Human Understanding 
Stackhouse's History of the Bible, Justice's 
British Gardener's Directory, Bayle's Lec- 
tures, Allan Ramsay's Works, Taylor's Scrip- 
ture Doctrine of Original Sin, A Seltd Collec- 
tion of English Soius, i.r.d Hervty's Meoiiation-, 
had formed the whoie of my reading. The 
collection of songs was my vaae mecum. I 
pored over thein driving my cart, or walking to 
labour, song by song, verse by verse ; carefully 
noting the true tenaer, or sublime, from affec- 
tation and fustian. I am convinced I owe to 
this practice much of my critic craft, such as 

" In my seventeenth year, to give my man- 
ners a brush, I went to a country dancing- 
school My father had an unaccountable anti- 
pathy against these meetings ; and my going 
was, what to this moment 1 repent, in eppcti- 



She dresses aye sae clean and neat, 

Both decent and genteel ; 
And then there's something in her gait 

Gars ony dress look weel. 

A gaudy dress and gentle air 

Ma;, slightly touch the heart. 
But it's innocence and modesty 

That polishes the dart. 

'Tis this in Nelly pleases me, 

'Tis this enchants my soul ; 
For absolutely in my breast 

She reigns without control. 

Tal lal de ral, <$-c 



It n 



<=ed that thes 



Hi- 



• H 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



tion to his wishes. My father, as I said 
before, was subject to strong passions ; from 
that instance of disobedience in me, he took a 
smt of dislike to me. which I believe was one 
cause of the dissipation which marked niy suc- 
ceeding years. I say dissipation, comparatively 
with the strictness and sobriety, and regularity 
of Presbyterian country life ; for tl.ou^h the 
Will o' Wisp meteors" of thoughtless whim 
were almost the sole lights of my path, yet early 
ingrained piety and virtue kept me for several 
■years afterwards within the line of innocence. 
The great misfortune of my life was to want an 
aim. I had felt early some stirrings of ambi- 
tion, but they were the blind gropings of 
Homers Cyc'ops round the walls of his cave. 
I saw my father's situation entailed on me per- 
petual labour. The only two openings by which 
I could enter the temple of Fortune, was the 
gate of niggardly economy, or the path of little 
chicaning bargain-making. The first is so 
contracted an aperture, I never could squeeze 
myself into it ; — the last I always hated— there 

abandoned of aim or view in life, with a strong 
appetite for sociability, as well from native 
hilarity, as from a pride of observation and 
remark: a constitutional melancholy or hypo- 
chondriasm that made me fly solitude ; add to 
these incentives to social life, my reputation for 
bokish knowledge, a certain wild logical 
talent, and a strength of thought, something 
like the rudiments of good sense ; and it will 
not seem surprising that I was generally a wel- 
come guest where I visited, or any great yvonder 
that, always where two or three met together, 
there was 1 among them. But far beyond all 
osher impulses of my heart, was im penchant a 
Vadorahle moitie du genre humaau My heart 
was completely tinder", and was eternally "lighted 
up by some goddess or other; and as in every 
other warfare in this world my fortune was 
various, sometimes I was received with favour, 
and sometimes I was mortified with a repulse. 
At the plough, scUhe, or reap hook, I feared 
no competitor, and thus I set absolute want at 
deliance ; and as I never cared farther for my 
labours than while I was in actual exercise, I 
spent the evenings in the way after my own 
heart. A couniry lad seldom carries on a love 
adventure without an assisting confidant. I 
possessed a curiosity, zeal, and intrepid dex- 
terity, that recommended me as a proper second 
on these occasions ; and I dare say, I felt as 
much pleasure in being in the secret of half the 
loves of the parish of Tarbolton, as ever did 
statesman in knowing the intrigues of half the 
courts of Europe. — The very goose-feather in 
my hand seems to know instinctively the well- 
worn path of my imagination, the favourite 
theme of my song; and is with difficulty 
restrained from giving you a couple of para- 
graphs on the lose adventures of mv compeers, 
the humble inmates of the farm-house and cot- 
tage : but the grave sons of science, ambition, 
or avarice, baptize these things by the name of 
follies. To the sons and daughters of labour 
and poverty, they are matters of the most 
serious nature; to them, the ardent hope, the 
stolen interview, the tender farewell, are the 
greatest and most delicious parts of their 
enjoy rn ■ 



was, that I spent my nineteenth summer on a 
smuggling coast, a good distance from home, 
at a noted school, to learn mensuration, survey, 
ing, dialling, ice. in which I made a pretty 
good progress. But I made a greater progress 
in the knowledge of mankind. The contraband 
trade was at that lime very successful, and it 
sometimes happened to me to fall in with those 
who carried it on. Scenes of swaggering riot 
and roaring dissipation were till (his time new 
to me; but I was no enemy to social life. 
Here, though I learnt to fill my glass, and to 
mix without fear in a drunken squabble, yet I 
went on with a high hand with my geometry, 
till (he sun entered Virgo, a month which is 
always a carnival in my bosom, when a charm- 
ing jiUlte who lived next door to the school, 
orerses my trigonometry, and sent me off at a 
tangent from the sphere of my studies. I, 
however, struggled on with my sines and co- 
sines, for a few days more ; but stepping into 
the garden one charaiing noon to take the sun's 
altitude, there I met my" angel, 



" It was in vain to think of doing any more 
good at school. The remaining week I staid. I 
did nolhing but craze the faculties of my soal 
about her, or steal out to meet her ; and the last 
two nights of my stay in the country, had sleep 
been a mortal sin, the image of this" modest and 
innocent girl had kept me guiltless. 

** I returned home very considerably improv- 
ed. My reading was enlarged with the very 
important addition of Thomson's and Shen- 
stone's Works ; I had seen human nature in a 
new phasis: and I engaged several of my 
school-fellows to keep up a literary correspon- 
dence with me. This improved me in composi- 
tion. I had met with a collection of letters by 
the wits of Queen Aune's reign, and I pored 
over them most devoutly ; I kept copies of any 
of my own letters that pleased me ; and a com- 
parison between them and the composition of 
most of my correspondents flattered my vanity. 
I carried this whim so far, that though I had 
not three farthings worth of business in the 
world, yet almost every post brought me as 
many let(ers as if I had been a broad plodding 
son of day-book and ledger. 

«« Mj life flowed on much in the same course 
till my twenty-third year. Five V amour, et 
rife la bagatelle, were my sole principles of ac- 
tion. The addition cf two more authors to my 
library gave me great pleasure ; Strrne and 
M'Kenzie— Tristram Shandy and The Man of 
Feeling — were my bosom favour tes. Poesy was 
still a darling walk for my mind ; but it was 
only indulged in according to the humour of 
the hour. I had usually half a dozen or more 
pieces on hanj ; I took up one or other, as it 
suited the momentary tone of the mind, and 
dismissed the work as it bordered on fatigue. 
My passions, when once lighted up, raged like 
so many de»ils, till (hey got vent in ihy 
and then the conning over my verses, li 
spell, soothed ail into quiet ! None of the 
rhyme; of those days are in print, except Win- 
ter, a Dirse, the oldest of my printed pieces ; 
The Death, of Poor Mailie", John Bailey- 
corn, and Songs, first, second, and third. 
Son? second was tlie ebullition of that passii 



BURNS LIFE. 



)5 



which ended the forementioned school busi- 

«« My twenty-third year was to _ me an impor- 
tant era. Partly through whim, and partly that 
I wished to set about doing something in life, I 
joined a flax-dresser in a neighbouring town 
(Irvine) to learn his trade. This was an un- 
lucky affair. My ; and, to finish 

the whole, as we were giving a welcoming 
carousal to the new year, the shop took fire, 
end burnt to ashes; and I was left like a true 
poet, not worth a sixpence. 

" I was obliged to give up this scheme: the 
clouds of misfortune were gathering thick 
round my father's head ; and what was worst 
of all, he was visibly far gone in a consump- 
tion ; and to crown" my distresses, a beVe file 
whom I adored, and wbo had pledged her soul I 
to meet me in the field of matrimony, jilted me, 
with peculiar circumstances of mortification. 
The finishing evil that brought up the rear of 
this infernal file, was, my constitutional melan- 
choly being increased to such a degree, that 
for three mouths I was in a state of mind 
scarcely to be envied by the hopeless wretches 
who have got their mittimus — Depart from me, 
ye accursed I 

" From this adventure, I learned something 
of a town life; but the principal thing which 
gave my mind a turn, was a friendship I formed 
with a young fellow, a very noble character, 
but a hapless son of misfortune. He was the 
son of a simple mechanic ; but a great man in 
the neighbourhood taking him under his patron- 
age, gave him a genteel education, wiih a view 
of bettering his situation in life. The patron 
dying just as he was ready to launch out iuto 
the world, the poor fellow in despair went to 
sea ; where after a variety of good and ill for- 
tune, a little before I was acquainted with him, 
he had been set ashore by an American priva- 
teer, on the wild coast of Connaught, stripped of 
every thing. I cannot quit this poor fellow's 
story, without adding, that he is at this time 
master of a large West Indiamau belonging to 
the Thames. 

" His mind was fraught with independence, 
magnanimity, and every manly virtue. I loved 
and admired him to a degree or enthusiasm, 
and of course strove to imitate him. In some 
measure. I succeeded ; 1 had pride before, but 
he taught it to flow in proper channels. His 
knowledge of the world was vastly superior to 
mine, and I was all attention to learn. He was 
the only man I ever saw, who was a greater 
fool than myself, wh;re woman was the pre- 
siding star ; but he spoke of illicit love with the 
levity of a sailor, which hitherto I had regarded 
with horror. Here hij friendship did me a 
mischief; and the consequence was that soon 
after I resumed the plough, I wrote the Poet's 
Welcome.* My reading only increased, while 
is this town, by two stray volumes of Pamela and 
one of Ferdinand Count "Fathom, wbicfa gave me 
some idea of novels. Rhyme, except some 
religious pieces that are in print, I had given 
up; but meeting with Ferguson's Scottish 
Poems, I strung anew my wildly-sounding lyre 
with emulating vigour. When, my father died, 



his all went among the hell-hounds that growl 
in the kennel of justice ; but we made a shift to 
collect a little money in the family amongst us, 
with which, to keep us together, my brother 
and I took a neighbouring farm. My brother 
wanted my hair-brained imagination, as well 
as my social and amorous madness ; but in good 
sense, and every sober qualification, he was fax 
my superior. 

" I entered on this farm with a full resolu- 
tion, Come, go io, I will be tcise 1 I read farm- 
ing books ; I calculated crops ; I attended mar- 
kets ; and in short, in spite of the devil, and tlie 
world, and the flesh, I believe I should have 
been a wise man, but the first year from unfor- 
tunately bu>ing bad seed, the second, from a 
late harvest, we lost half our crops. This 
overset all my wisdom, and I returned, like the 
dog to his vomit, and the sow that was washed to 
her wallowing in Ihe mt're.f • 



^ * Rob the Rhymer's Welcome to his Bastard The frank address, the soft en 
Are worse than poison 'd dar 



\ At the time that our poet took the resolution 
of becoming wise, he procured a little book of 
blank paper, with the purpose (expressed in the 
first page) of making memorandums upon it. 
These farming memorandums are curious 
enough ; many of tbem have been written with 
a pencil, and are now obliterated, or at least 
illegible. A considerable number are however 
legible, and a specimen may gratify the reader. 
It must be premised, that the poet kept the book 
by him for several years — that he wrote upon it 
here and there, with the utmost irregularity, 
and that on the same page are notations very 
distant from each other as to time and plac- 



EXTEMPORE. April, 13S2. 

O why the deuce should I repine, 

And be an ill foreboder '{ 
I'm twenty-three, and five feet nine— 

1 '11 go and be a sodger. 



I'll go and be a sodgi 



FRAGMENT. Tune—< Donald Blue.' 

O leave novels, ye Mauchline belles, 
Ye're safer at your spinning wheel ; 

Such witching bouks are baited hooks 
For rakish rooks like Rob MossgieL 

Sing tal, lal, lay, 4" c « 

Your fine Tom Jores and Grandisons, 
They make yowr jouthful fancies reel, 

They heat your brains, and fire your veins, 
And then you're prey for Rob Mossgiel. 

Beware a tongue that's smoothly hung ; 

A heart that warmly seeks to feel ; 
That feeling heart but acts a part, ~~ 

'Tis rakish art in Rob Mossgiel. 



16 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



■* I now te^an to be kno^n ir. • 
hookas a miker of rbyrces. Tbe first of my 
poetic offspring that saw the light, was a bur- 
lesque lamentation on a quarrel between two 
reversed Calvinists. both of tbem dramatis per*- 
Mte in my Holg Far. I had a notion myself, 
tbat the piece had some merit; but to prevent 
the worst, [gave i copy of it to a friend who 
1 of such things, and told him that 
I cou'd not guess who was the author of it. bat 
that I thought it pretty clever. W 
iu uciiutiw i of the :' ; : r" . us well as '. ::: . ; : -; 
with a roar of applause". Holy Wi 
next made its appearance, and alarmed the 
kirk-sessicu so mash, that they 
meeting:? to lock over their spiritual artillery, if 
baply any of it might be pointed against profane 
rhymers. Unluckily for me, my wanderings 
led me on another side, within point blank shot 
of their heaviest metal, 'i his is the unfortunate 
■ ■■ e rise to my pri ted poem. The 
was '. "oost melancholy affiir, 
which I cannot yet bear to reflect on, and had 
very nearly given me one or two of the principal 
qualifications for a pii^e among those who have 
lost the chart, and mistaken the reckoning of 



— r i aston these two 

' M . " ■ ' - ■ ' — - 



hi Sir Peter H^lket of Pilferran. 
trie author. — Note, he married her — the heiress 

::rd, the author of 2X.-!f.-: 

K'l apron € 

was made on 
fWalkiashaw.mea 
I lo'enm a laddie but z-.:, Mi . 

The tonnie vece t h 

beautiful. 
He tillt and she HU't— assez biea. 
Armstrong's FareieeU — £ne. 
Tfca author of tbe H\ 
M Iver, oars?r of the - 
F'Uanda: the land .:' 

- of The Bush aieon Traquair was 

; 

- ! 
—To inquire if Mr Csckburn was the 



a-.. 



r of / ha'e 'seen the smiling, &c. 



I ease up my part of the farm 
to my brother ; ia truth it was or." . 
mine; and made what little preparation was in 

my naiive com. • ed to publish 

my poems. I weighed mj productions as 

; was in ray powe i 
they had merit ; and it was a delicious idea 
thr.t I should be called a 

ii never reach try - — 
negro driver, — or perhaps a victim to that 
inhospitable clime, and gone to tbe world of 

. truly say, that pz . 
as I thi=n was, I had pre'.ty nearlr as high aa 
idea of myself and my works as I have at this 
moment, when the public has decided ia their 
favour. It ever was my opinion, that the mis- 
takes and blanders, both in a rational and reli- 
gious point of view, of which we see thousands 
daily guilty, are owing to their 
themselves. To kuw myself, hsd been all 
along- my constant stud; 

alone ; I balaueed my-elf with others : I watch- 
ed every means of informaiion, to see how much 
ground I o-cup : ed as a nun and as a poet: I 
stodied assiduously oat 
niitioa — where :he lights and sha 

■ ■• . confident 
mv poems would meet with some l[ 
at* the worst, the roar of tbe At a 
deafen the voice of censure, and I he 
West Indian scenes make nr.e forget neglect. I 
threw off bix fa ired ( 

s for about three I 
fifty. My vanity »ss fa » 

reception I met with from the publie ; a.;d be- 
sides 1 pocketed, all ex: 

- 
ably, a.- I was thinking of indenting myself, 
forwant of money to procure my ;_ 

is, the price 
I I .'ofe a steer- 
ship thai rj= !Q ia.l 

" Uurjgry ruin hid me in the wind." 

" I had beaa for some days skulking from 
covert to cover , rs of a jail ; 

as some ill-=.i meooplei the 

merciless pack of :he a-v zl my he- s, [ ..:.- 
i'ken the last farewell of my few friends; my 
chest was en the road to Greenock ; I had com- 
posed the last sons f should e.^r 
Caledonia, The zioomy nizht is g ; ■ . 
when a letter from IV B'.acklock, to a friend o- 
5, by opening 
■i m. The 
Doctor belonged to a set of critics, for whose 
applause I had n.-,t dared to hope. His opinion 
-:: with encouragement in Edin- 
burgh far a secoui edition, fired me so much, 
posted for thtt city, wi.hout a 
singie aev,t.aintance. or a 

duction. The baneful star that had so long shrd 
its blasting indue-.ce in my z':: th 
male a rev.?; r; n:d a ki:: . 

Providence pUcfd me ui 



BURNS.— LIFE. 



M 



cairn. Oublie mot, Grand Dieu, si jamais je 
I 'oublie I 

" I need relate no farther. At Edinburgh I 
was in a new world; I mingled among many 
classes of men, but all of them new to me, and 
I was all attention to catch the characters and 
the manners Uvin ? as they rise. Whether I 
have profited, time will show. 



"My most respectful compliments to Miss 
W. Her very elegant and friendly letter I 
cannot answer at present, as my presence is 
requisite in Edinburgh, and I set out to-mor- 
row. "* 



At the period of our poet's death, his bro- 
ther, Gilbert Burns, was ignorant that he had 
himself written the foregoing narrative of his 
life while in Ayrshire ; and having been ap- 
plied to by Mrs Dunlop for some memoirs of 
his brother, he complied with her request in a 
letter, from which the following narrative is 
ehiefly extracted. When Gilbert Burns after- 
wards saw the letter of our poet to Dr Moore, 
he made some annotations upon it, wnich shall 
be noticed as we proceed. 

Robert Burns was born on the 29th day of 
January, 1759, in a small house about two 
miles from the town of Ayr, and within a few 
hundred yards of Alio way Church, which his 
poem of Tarn o' Sha7iter has rendered immor- 
tal, f The name which the poet and his bro- 
ther modernized into Burns, was originally 
Burnes or Burness. Their father, William 
Buviies, was the son of a farmer in Kincardine- 
shire, and had received the education common 
in Scotland to persons in his condition of life : 
he could read and write, and had some know- 
ledge of arithmetic. His family having fallen 
into reduced circumstances, he was compelled 

turned his steps towards the south in quest of 
a livelihood. The same necessitv attended hi 
elder brother Robert. " I have often hear 
my father, " says Gilbert Burns, in his letter 
Jo .Mrs Dunlop, " describe the anguish of mind 
he felt when they parted on the top of a hill on 
the confines of their native place, "ich going 
oft' his several way in search of new adventures, 
and scarcely knowing whither he went. My 
- - a gardener, and shap- 
- - ight 



* There are various copies of this letter, in 
the author's hand-writing; and one of these, 
evidently corrected, is in the book in which he 
had cop'ied several of his letters. This has 
teen used for the press, with some omissions, 
and one slight alteration suggested by Gilbert 



hard when he could get work, passing through 
a variety of difficulties. Still, however, he 
endeavoured to spare something for the support 
of his aged parent ; and I recollect hearing him 
mention his having sent a bank-note for this 
purpose when money of that kind was so scarce 
in Kincardineshire, that they scarcely knew 
how to employ it when it arrived." From 
Edinburgh William Burnes passed westward in- 
to the county of Ayr, where he engaged himself 
as a gardener to the laird of Fairley, with whom 
lie lived two years ; then changing his service 
for that of Crawford of Doonside. At length, 
being desirous of settling in life, he took a per- 
petual lease of seven acres of land from Dr 
Campbell, physician in Ayr, with the view of 
commencing nurseryman and public gardener; 
and having built a house upon it with his own 
hands, married in December, 1757, Agnes 
Brown, the mother of our poet, who still sur- 
vives. The first fruit of this marriage was 
Robert, the subject of these memoirs, born on 
the 29th of January, 1759, as has already been 
mentioned. Before William Bunnes had made 
much progress in preparing his nursery, he 
was withdrawn from that undertaking by Mr 
Ferguson, who purchased the estate of .Wcon- 
holtu, in. the immediate neighbourhood, and 
engaged him as his gardener and overseer ; 



born. Though in the s 



he In 



in hi s 



her family and lit 

5 Of t 



; ho 



e of Mr Fergi 



tnd this 



Bui 



i This house is on the right hand side of the j the black 

road from Ayr to Mavbole, which forms a part 

| of the road from Glasgow to Port- Patrick. 

i M lien the poet's father afterwards removed to 

I Tarbolton parish, lie sold his leasehold right in 

this house, and a few acres of land adjoining, 

to the corporation of shoemakers in Ayr. It is 

Bow a country ale-house, 



les of three milch 
nambitious content 
continued till the year 176o. His son Robert 
was sent by him, in his sixth year, to a school 
at Alloway Miln, about a mile distant, taught 
by a person of the name of Campbell ; but this 
teacher being in a few- months appointed mas- 
ter of the workhouse at Ayr, William Burnes, 
in conjunction with some other heads of fami- 
lies, engaged John Murdoch in his stead. The 
education of our poet, and of his brother Gilbert, 
was in common ; and of their proficieucy under 
Mr Murdoch we have the following account : 
"With him we learnt to read English tolera- 
bly well, i and to write a little. He taught us, 
I too, the English grammar. I was too young 
: to profit much from his lessons in grammar; 
: but Robert mad? some proficiency in it— a cir- 
cumstance of considerable weight in the un- 
i folding of his genius and character ; as he soon 
j became remarkable for the fluency and correct- 
| atss of his expression, and read the few books 
' that came in his wny with much pleasure and 
I improvement ; for even then he was a reader, 
i when he could get a book. Murdoch, whose 
1 l!brr.:-v at that true had no great variety in it, 
lent him T!ie Life of Hannibal, which was the 
first bcok he read (the school books excepted) 
and almost the only one he had an opportunity 
of reading while he was at school; for Z'/k» 
| Life of \Vallac?, which he classes with it in one 
j of' his letters to you, he did not see for some 
years afterwards," when he borrowed it from 
1 the blacksmith who shod our horses. " 

i.at William Burnes approved 
himself greatly in the service of Mr Ferguson, 
by his intelligence, industry, and integrity. In 



£ Letter from Gilbert Bums to Mrs Dunlop.. 



13 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



consequence of this, with a view of promoting 

his interest. .Mr rer^uuii leased him a farm, 

" The farm was up u aids of seventy acres* 
(between eighty and ninety, English statute 
measure), the rent of which was to be forty 
pounds annuaily for the first six years, and af- 
terwards forty-live pounds. My lather endea- 
voured to sell his leasehold property, for the 
purpjse of stocking- this farm, but at'that time 
was unable, and Mr Ferguson lent him a hun- 
dred pounds for that purpose. He removed to 
bis new situation at Whitsuntide, 17;i6. It 
v,a,, 1 thai';, not ahove two years after this, 
that Murdoch, our tutor and 'friend, left this 
part of the country ; and there oeing no school 

the farm, my father undertook to teach us 



iiidle- 



"liiwi, 



liij-iii ; and in this wavHiv twe 
ell the education they'received 
circa a;- tai.ee that happened at I 

Riid may serve to illustrate the early character 
of my brother. Murdoch came to spend a 
night with us, and to take his leave, when he 
was about to go into Carriek. He brought us, 
as a present and memorial of him. a small 
English Grammar, and the 



pas 



;\\ or Tit 
Ag the 



e all attention for 



aloud. We 

tili presently the whole party was dissolved in 
tears. A female in the play (I have but a con- 
fused remembrance of it) had her hands chopt 
off, and her tongue cut out, and then was in- j 
.sultingly desired to call for water to wash her | 
hands. At this, in an agony of distress, we 
with one voice desired he wctudreadno more. I 
My father observed, that if we would not hear 
it out, it would be needless to leave the play 
with us. Robert replied, that if it was left he | 
would burn it. My father was going to chide 
hisn for this ungrateful return' to his tutor's 
kindness; but Murdoch interfered, declaring 
that he liked to see so much sensibility ; and he 
left The School for Lire, a comedy ^translated, 
I think, from tiie French), iu its "place, "f 



"Nothing," continues Gilbert Burns, 
" could be more retired than our general man- 
ner of living at Mount Gliphant ; we rarely 
saw any body hut the members of our own 
family. There were no boys of our own age, 
or near it, in the neighbourhood. Indeed ihe 
greatest part of the land in the vicinity was at 
that tire possessed by shopkeepers, and people 
of that stamp, who had retired from business, 
or who kept their farm in tne cuuntry, at the 
same time that they followed business in town. 
Mv father was for some time almost the only 
companion we had. He conversed familiarly 
on ail subjects with us, as if we had been men ; 
and was at great pains, while we accompanied 
him in the labours of the farm, to lead the 
conversation to such subjects as might tend to 
increase our knowledge, or confirm us in vir- 
tuous habits. He borrowed Salmon's Giogra- 
t p/iical Grammar for us, and endeavoured to 
make us acquainted with the situation and 
history of the different countries in the world ; 
while, from a book society in Ayr, he procured 
for us the reading of Derhjm's Physico aud 
Astro-Theology, and Ray's Wisdom of God in 
the Creation, to give us some idea of astronomy 
and natural history. Robert read all these 
books with an avidity and industry scarcely to 
be equalled. My father had been 'a subscriber 
to Slack-house's History of the Bible, then lately 
published by James Memos iu Kilmarnock: 
from this Robert collected a competent know- 
ledge of ancient history ; for no book was so 
voluminous as to slacken his industry, or so an- 
tiquated as to damp his researches. A brother 
of my mother, who had lived with us some 
time, and had learnt some arithmetic by our 
winter evening's caudle, went into a bookseller's 
shop in Ayr, to purchase Tlie Ready Reckoner, 
or Tradesman's su, e Guide, and a book to tesch 
him to write letters. Luckily, in olace of The 
Complete Letter-Writer, he got, by mistake, a 
; by the most eminent 



with a 



oris for at- 



* Letter of Gilbert Burns to Mrs Dunlop. 
The name of this farm is Mount Oliphaut, in 
Ayr parish. 

"t It is to be remembered that the poet was 
only nine years of age, and the relater of this 
incident under eight, at the time it happened. 
'I he effect was very natural in children of scn- 
f at their age. 

laughter, than tears. The scene lo w 
Gilbert jJurus alludes, opens thus : 

Thus Andronicus, Act II. Scene 5. 

Enter Demetrius and Chiron, icith Lavinia 

ravished, her hands cul qjf, and her tongue j 

cu t ou t. I he intended to perform. That he never excited 

I in a British mind (for the French critics must 

Whv is this silly play still printed as Shat- ' be set aside) disgust or ridicule, where he 

f- re'-, aa-uiust the opinion of all the best meant to have- awakened pay or horror, is 

critics y The bard of Avon was guilty of many what will not be imputed to that master of the 

. .es, but he always performed «hat ; • 



book 

was to Robert of the greatest consequence. It 
inspired him with a strong desire to excel in 
letter-writing, while it furnished bim with 
models by some of the first writers in our lan- 
guage. 

" My brother was about thirteen or fourteen, 
when my father, regretting that be wrote so ill, 
sent us, Wfek about, during a summer quarter, 
to the parish school of Dairy mple, which, 
though between two and three miles distant, 
was the nearest to us, that we might have an 
opportunity of remedying this detect. About 
this time a bookish acquaintance of my father's 
procured us a reading of two volumes of Rich- 
ardson's Pamela, which was the first novel we 
read, and the only part of Richardson's works 
m j- brother was acquainted with till towards 
the perk'd of his commencing author. Till 
that time too he remained unacquainted with 
Fielding, with Smollett, (two volumes of 



TURNS — LIFE. 



Ferdinand Cour.i Fathom, and two volumes 
cf Peregrine Pickle excepted), with Home, 
with Robertson, and almost all our authors 
of eminence of the later times. I recollect 
indeed my father borrowed a volume of 
JZi.j-li-.il history from Mr Hamilton cf Bourtree- 
hill's gardener. It treated of the reign of James 
the First, and his unfortunate son, Charles, 
but I do not know who was the author; all 
that I remember of it is something cf Charles's 
conversation with hi; children. About this time 
Murdoch, our former Uaehf.r, after havi. s been 
in different places in the country, and having 
taught a school some time in Injuries, came to 
be the established teacher of the English lan- 
guage in Avr, a circumstance of considerable 
consequence to us. The remembrance of my 
father's former friend-hip, and his attachment 
to my brother, made him do every thing in his 
power for our improvement. He sent us Pope's 
works, and some other poetry, the first that we 
- v -'■'. 
is contained i'l The E;.'i± : . IV hc' : oi;, and iu 
the volume of T. . 

1772; excepting also those excellent new tongs 
that are hawked" about the country in baskets, 
or exposed on stalls in the streets. 

" The summer after we had been at Dalrym- 
ple school, my father sent Robert to Ayr, to 
revise his English grammar, with his former 
teacher. He had been there only one week, 
when he was obliged to return, to assist at the 
harvest. When the harvest was over, he went 
back to school, where he remained two weeks; 
and this completes the account of his school | 
education, excepting one summer quarter some ; 
time afterwards, that lie attended the pari.-h 
school of Kirk Oswald, (where he lived with a 

" Durhig the two lau weeks that ha was'with 

French, and he communicated the instructions 

he received to my I roller, v. ho, .. 

turned, brought with 

and grammar, a:;d t'.: 

cA«s in the original. In a little white by the 

knowledge of the language, as to read and 
understand any French author in prose. This 
was considered as a sort of prodigy, and 
through the medium of .Murdoch, procured him 
the acquaintance of sereral lads in Ayr, who 
were a't that time gabbling French, and the 
notice of some families, particularly that cf I)r 
Malcolm, where a knowledge of French was a 



hlui 



«-.thou 



language by his own industry, 
having learned it al school, advised Robert to 
make the same attempt, promising him every 
assistance in his power. Agreeably to this 
advice, he purchased Th I its of i 

L:t:n Tongue, but finding this study dry and 
uninteresting, it was quickly laid aside, He 
frequently returned to Lis R .- : 

little chagrin or disappointment, particularly 
in his love affairs; but the T.u; n 

Observing hf 






lidiruic that would ;.tl-ch to this sort t,f e 



duct if it were known, he made two or tnrea 
humorous stanzas on the subject, which I 
cannot now recollect, but ihev all ended, 



« So I'll to uiy Latin again. * 

" Thus you see Mr 3:nrdoeh was a principal 
means of my brother's improvement. "Worthy 
man ! though foreign to my present purpose, 
I cannot take leave of him without tracing his 
future history. He continued for some years a 
respected and useful teacher at Ayr, till one 
evening that he had been overtaken in liquor, 
he happened to speak somewhat disrespectfully 
of Dr Dalryrnple, the parish minister, who had 
not paid h:m that attention to which he thought 
himself entitled. In Ayr he might as well 
have spoken blasphemy. lie found it proper 
to give up his appointment. He went to Lon- 
don, w here he still lives, a private teacher of 
French. He has been a considerable time 

The father of Dr Paterscn. now'physiciaa 
at Ayr, was, I believe, a native of Aberdeen- 
shire, and was one of the established teachers 
in Ayr when m\ father settled in the neighbour- 
hood, lie eag-erly recognised my father as a 
fellow native of the north" cf Scotland, and a cer- 
tain degree ot intimacy subsisted between them 
during Mr Paterson's life. After his death, his 
widow, who is a very genteel woman, and cf 
great worth, delighted in doing what she 
thought her husband would have wished to 
have done, and assiduously kt-pt up her attec. 
tious to all his acquaintance. She kept alive 
the intimacy with our family, by frequently 
inviting my father ar.d mother to her house on 
Sundays, when she met them at church. 

" When she came to know my brother's r.as- 
sion for books, she kindly offered us the use of 
her husband's library, and from her we got the 
Spectator, Pep- 'a t; ai,.<ii,ticn cf Homer, and 
several other bocks that were "of use to us. 
Mount Oiiphant, the farm my father possessed 
in the parish cf Ayr, is almost the very poorest 
soil 1 know of in a state cf cultivation. A 
stronger proof of this I cannot give, than that, 
notwithstanding the extraordinary rise in tiie 
value of lands in Scotland, it was", after a con- 
siderable sum laid out in improvii g it by t!ia 
proprietor, ict ; a few years ago, five pounds per 
annum lower than the rent paid for it bv my 
father thirty years ago. My father, in cense. 
quer.ee cf this, soon came into difficulties, 
which were increased by the loss of several of 
his cattle by accidents 7 and disease — To the 
bufferings cf misfortune, we could only oppose 



.1 iab.i 



and i 



For s 



■eral i 



We 
5 but- 



.lie 



all the members of the" family exerted them- 
selves to the utmost of their strength, and 
rather beyond it. in the labours cf the farm. 
My brother, at the age of thirteen, assisted in 
threshing the crop of corn, and at fifteen 
was the principal labourer on the farm, for 
we had no hired servant, male or female. 
The anguish of mind we felt at our tender 
years, under these straits and difficulties, was 
very gre.it. To th r.k of our father growing 
old (for be was new above fifty,) broken down 



nth ti 
<.;■): tils 



! f.t 



rift 



cl.il 



20 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



tions produced in my brother's mind and mine 
sensations of the deepest distress. I doubt not 
bu: the hr.rd labour and sorrow of this period of 
his life, was in a great measure the cause of 
that depression of spirits with which Robert was 
so often afflicted through his whole life after- 
wards. At this time he was almost constantly 
afflicted in the evenings with a dull headache", 
which, at a future period of his life, was ex- 
changed for a palpitation of the heart, and a 
threatening af faulting and suffocation in his 
bed, in the night-time. 

" By a stipulation in my father's lease, he 
had a right to throw it up, if he thought proper, 
at the end of every sixth year. He attempted 
to fix himself in a' better farm at the end of the 
rir?t six years, but failing in that attempt, he 
continued where he was for six years more. 
He then took the farm of Lochlea, of 130 acres, 
at the rent of twenty shillings an acre, in the 

parish of Tarbolton, of Mr , then a 

merchant in A>r, and now C1797) a merchant 
in Liverpool. He removed to this farm at 
Whitsunday, 1777, and possessed it only seven 
years. No writing had ever been made out, of 
the conditions of the lease; a misunderstanding 
took place respecting thani : the subjects in dis- 
pute were submitted to arbitration, and the 
decision involved my father's affars in ruin. 
He lived to know of this decision, but not to 
see any execution in consequence of it. He 
died on the 13th of February, 1731. 

"The seven je.irs we lived in Tarbolton 
parish (extending from the seventeenth to the 
twenty-fourth of my brother's age), were not 
marked by much literary improvement; hut 
during this tints the foundation was laid of cer- 
tain habits in my brother's character, which 
afterwards became but too prominent, and 
which malice and eavv have taken delieht to 
enlarge on. Though, when young, he was 
bashful and awkward in his intercourse with 
women, yet when he approached manhood, his 
attachment to iheir society became very strong, 
and he was constantly the victim of some fair 
enslaver. The symptoms cf his passion were 
often such as nearly to equal those of the 
celebrated Sappho. I never indeed knew that 
he fainted, sunk, and d;cd aicay ; but the agita- 
tions of his mind and body exceeded any thing 
of the kind I ever knew in real life. He had 
always a particular jealousy of people who were 
richer than himself, or who had more conse- 
quence in life. His love, therefore, rarely 
settled on persons of this description. When 
he selected a:iy one, out cf the sovereignty of 
bis good pleasure, to whom he should pay his 
particular attention, she was instantly invested 
with a sufficient stock of charms, out of the 
plentiful stores of his own imasina'ion ; end 
there was often a great dissimilitude between 
hi, fair ciptivator as she appeared to others, 
and as she seemed when invested with the at- 
tributes he gave her. One generally reigned 
paramount in his affections: but as Yoriek's 

affections flowed out toward Madame de L 

at the remise door, while the eternal vows of 
Eliza were upon him, so Robert was frequently 
encountering other attractions, which formed 
so many under plots in the drama of his love. 
As tbe<e connexions were governed by the 
strictest rules of virtue and modesty (from which 
he never deviated tiil he reached his 23d year), 
he became anxious to be in a situation to marry. 



This was not likely to be soon the case while ha 
remnined a farmer, as the stocking of a farm 
required a sum of money he had no probability 
of being master of for a great while. He be- 
gan, therefore, to think of trying some other 
line of life. He and I bad for several years 
taken land of my father for the purpose of 
raising flax on our own account. In the conrse 
of selling it, Robert began to think of turning 
flax-dresser, both as being suitable to hia. 
grand view of settling in life, and as subser- 
vient to the flax raising. He accordingly 
wrought at the business of a flax-dresser in 
Irvine for six months, but abandoned it at that 
period, as neither agreeing with his health nor 
inclination. In Irvine he had contracted some 
acquaintance of a freer manner of thinking and 
living than he had been used to, whose society 
prepared him for overleaping the bounds of 
rigid virtue which had hitherto restrained him. 
Towards the end cf the ppriod under review 
linhis 24th year), and soon after his father's 
death, he was furnished with the subject of his 
epistle to John Rankin. During this period 
also he became a freemason, which was his 
first introduction to the life of a boon companion. 
Yet, notwithstanding these circumstances, and 
the praise he has bestowed on Scotch drink 
(which seems to have misled his historians), I 
do not recollect, during these seven years, nor 
till towards the end of his commencing author 
(when his growing celebrity occasioned his 
being often in company), to have ever seen him 
intoxicated ; nor was he at all given to drinking. 
A stronger proof of the general sobriety of his 
conduct need not be required than what I am 
about to give. During the whole of the time 
we lived in the farm of Lochlea with my father, 
lie allowed my brother and me such wages for 
lai>o;ir as he gave to other labourer 



I of t 



clothin 



lufactured in the family was regularly ac- 
counted for. When my father's affairs "drew 
near a crisis, Robert and I took the farm of 
Mossgiel, consisting of 118 acres, at the rent 
of L90 per annum (the farm on which I live 
at present) from .'.;r Gavin Hamilton, as an 
asylum for the family in case of the worst. It 
was stocked by the property and individual 
savings of the whole family, and was a joint 
concern among us. Every member of the 
family was allowed ordinary wages for the 
labour he performed on the farm. My broth jr 's 
allowance and mine was seven pounds per an- 
num each. And during the whole time this 
family concern lasted, which was four years, 
as well as during the preceding period at 
Lochlea, his expenses never in any one year 
exceeded his slender income. As I was in- 
trusted with the keeping of the family accounts, 
it is not possible that there can be any fallacy 

temperance and frugality were every thing that 
could be wished. 

" Ihe farm of Mossgiel lies very high, and 
mostly on a cold wet bottom, 'ihe first four 
years that we were on the farm were very 
'.rosty, and the sprinir was very late. Cur 
crops in consequence were very unprofitable; 
and, notwithstanding our utmost diligence and 
economy, we found f.:r-clves obliged to give 
up our bargain, with the loss of a considerable 
part of our original stock. It was during 
these four years that Robert formed his con- 



BURNS — LIFE. 



21 



cexion with Jean Armonr, afterwards Mrs 
Bums. This connexion cou:tl no longer be 
concealed, about the time we came to a final 
determination to quit the farm. Robert durst 
not engage with a family in his poor unsettled 
state, but was anxious to shield his partner by 
every means in his power from the consequen- 
ces of their imprudence. It was agreed there- 
fore between them, that they should make a 
legal acknowledgment of an irregular and 
private marriage ; that he should go to Jamaica, 
to push, his fortune ; and that she should remain 
with her father till it might please Providence 
to put the means of supporting a family in his 
power. 

"Mrs Burns was a great favourite of her 
father's. The intimation of a private marriage 
was the first suggestion he received of her real 
situation. He was in the greatest distress, and 
fainted away. The marriage did not appear to 
him tc make the matter any better. A hus- 
band in Jamaica appeared to him and his wife 
little better than none, and an effectual bar to 
any other prospects of a settlement in life that 
their daughter might have. They therefore 
expressed a wish to her, that the written papers 
•which respected the marriage should be can- 
celled, and thus the marriage rendered void. 
In her melancholy state she felt the deepest 
remorse at having brought such heavy affliction 
on parents that loved her so tenderly, and sub- 
mitted to their entreaties. Their wisli was 
mentioned to Robert. He felt the deepest 
anguish of mind. He offered to stay at home 
and provide for his wife and family in the best 
manner that his daily labours could provide for 
them ; that being the only means in his power. 
Even this offer they did not approve of; for 
humble as Miss Armour's station was, and 
great though her imprudence had been, she 
still, in the eyes of her partial parents, might 
look to b better connexion than that with 
my friendless and unhappy brother, at that 
time without house or bkling-place. Robert 
at length consented to their wishes ; but his 
feelings on this occasion were of the most dis- 
tracting nature : and the impression of sorrow 
was not effaced, till by a regular marriage they 
were indissolubly united. In the state of mind 
which this separation produced, he wished to 
leave the country as soon as possible, and agreed 
with Dr Douirlas to go out to Jamaica as an 
assistant overseer, or, as I believe it is called, 
a book-keeper, on his estate. As he had not 
sufficient money to pay his passage, and the 
vessel in which Dr Douglas was to procure a 
passage for him was not expected to sail for 
some time, Mr Hamilton advised him to publish 
his poems in the meantime by subscription, as 
u likely way of getting a little money to provide 
him more liberally in necessaries for Jamaica. 
Agreeably to this advice, subscription bills were 
printed immediately, and the printing was 
commenced at Kilmarnock, his preparations 
going on at the same time for his voyage. The 
reception, however, which his poems met with 
in the world, and the friends they procured 
him, made him change his resolution of going 
to Jamaica, and he was advised to go to Edin- 
burgh to publish a second edition. On his 
Teturn, in happier circumstances, he renewed 
his connexion with Mrs Burns, and rendered it 
permanent by a union for life. 

•• Thus, Madam, have I endeavoured Jo give 



you a simple narrative of the leading circum- 
stances in my brother's early life. The le- 
maining part he spent in Edinburgh or Dum- 
friesshire, and its incidents are as well known 
to you as to me. His genius having procured 
him your patronage and friendship, this gave 

which, I believe, his sentiments were delivered 
with the most respectful, but most unreserved 
confidence, and which only terminated with 
the last days of his life. ' ' 



This narrative of Cilbert Burns may serve 
as a commentary on the preceding sketch ot 
our poet's life by himself. It will be seen that 
the distraction of mind, which he mentions 
above, arose from the distress and sorrow in 
which he Lad involved his future wife. The 
whole circumstances attending this connexion 

The reader will perceive, from the foregoing 
narrative, how much the children of "William 
Burnes were indebted to their father, who was 
certainly a man of uncommon talents; though 
it does not appear that he possessed any portion 
of that vivid imagination for which the subject 
of these memoirs'was distinguished. In page 
14. it is observed by our poet, that his father 
had an unaccountable antipathy to dancing- 
schools, and that his attending cue of these 
brought on him his displeasure, and even dis- 
like. On this observation Gilbert has made the 
following remark, which seems entitled to im- 
plicit credit :—" I wonder how Robert could 
attribute to our father that lasting resentment 
of his goinff to a dancing-school against his 
will, of which he was incapable. I believe 
the truth was, that he, about this time, began 
to see the dangerous impetuosity of my brother's 
passions, as well as his not being amenable to 
counsel, which often irritated my father ; and 
which he would naturally think a dancing- 
school was not likely to correct. But he was 
proud of Robert's genius, which he bestowed 
more expense in cultivating than on the rest of 
the family, in the instances of sending him to 
Ayr and Kirk-Oswald schools; and he was 
greatly delighted with his warmth of heart, 
and his conversational powers. He had in- 
deed that dislike of dancing-schools which 
Robert mentions ; but so far overcame it during 
Robert's first month of attendance, that he 
allowed all the rest of the family that were fit 
for it, to accompany him during the second 
month. Robert excelled in dancing, and was 
for some time distractedly fund of it. " 

In the original letter to Dr Moore, our poet 

described his ancestors as "renting lands of 

the noble Keiths of Monachal, and as having 

had the honour of sharing their fate. " " I do 

it," continues he, "use the word honour 

ith any reference to political principles ; 



* In page 16. the poet mentions his ,G skulk- 
ing from covert to covert, under all the terrors 
of a jail. "—The "pack of the law were un- 
coupled at his heels," to oblige him to find 
security for the maintenance of his twin- 
children, whom he was not permitted to legi- 
timate by a marriage with their mother 



2fl 



DIAMOND CALT.nET LIBRARY. 



loyal and disloyal I fate to be merely relative 
terras, ia that ancient and formidable court, 
known in this country by the name of Club- 
law, where the right is always with the 
strongest. But those who dare welcome ruin 
and shake hands with infamy, for what they 
sincercly believe to be the cause of their God, 
or their king, are, as Mark Antony says in 
Spakspeare, of Brutus and Cassius. honourable 
men. I mention this circumstance, because it 
threw my father en :he world at large. " 

This paragraph hss been omitted in printing 
»he letter, at the desLre of Gilbert Burns ; and 
it would have been unnecessary to have noticed 
it on the present occasion, had not several 
manuscript copies of that letter been in circula- 
tion. "I do not know," observes Gilbert 
Burns, "how my biother could be misled in 
the account he has given of the Jacobitism of 
bis ancestors. — I believe the EatI of Marischal 
forfeited his title and estate in 1715, before my 
father was born ; and among a collection of 
parish-certificates in his possession, I have read 
one, stating that the bearer had no concern in 
the late wicked rebellion. " On the information of 



The father of our poet is described by one who 
knew him towards the latter end of his life, as 
above the common stature, thin, and bent with 
labour. His countenance w.as serious and 
expressive, and the scanty locks on bis head 
were grey, lie was cf a religious turn of mind, 
and as is usual among the Scottish peasantry, 
a good deal conversant in speculative theology. 
There is in Gilbert's hands a little manual of 
religious belief, in the form of a dialogue 
between a father and his son, composed by him 
for the use of his children, in which the bene- 
volence of his heart seems to have led him (o 
soften the rigid Calvinism of the Scottish 
church, into something approaching to Ar- 
minianism. He was a devout man, and in the 
practice of calling his family together to join in 
prayer. It is known that the following ex- 
quisite picture in the Colter's Stittncay Night, 
represents William Burnes and his family at 



ho I-.:-., 



- Will:: 



ived in the county of Ayr, it may be mentioned, 
that a report did prevail, that he had taken the 
field with the young chevalier; a report which 
the certificate mentioned bv his son was, per- 
haps, intended to counteract*. Strangers from the 
North, settling in the low country of Scotland, 
■were in those days liable to suspicions of having 
been, in the familiar phrase of the country, 
" Out in the forty-live," (1745,) espeeially 
wheu they had any sta<eliness or reserve about 
them, as" was the case with Wilriam Burnes. 
It may easily be conceived, that our poet would 
cherish the belief of his father's having been 
engaged in the daring enterprise of Prince 
Charles Edward. The generous attachment, 
the heroic valour, and the final misfortunes of 
the adherents of the house of Stuart, touched 
with sympathy his youthful and ardent mind, 
and influenced his original political opinions. * 

* There is another observation of Gilbert 
Burns on his brother's narrative, in which 
some persons will be interested. It refers to 
■where the Doet speaks of his youthful friends. 
"My brother," says Gilbert Burns, "seems 
to set Oil his early companions in too consequen- 
tial a manner. The principal acquaintance we 
had in Ayr, while boys, were four sons of Mr 
Ancirew M'Cuiloeh, "a distaut relation of my 
mother's, who kept a tea shop, and had made 
a little money in the contraband trade, very 
common at that time. He died while the boys 
•were young, and my father was nominated one 
cf the tutors. Thetwo elde'.t were bred shop- 
keepers, the third a surgeon, and the youngest, 
the only surviving one, was bred in a counting- 
house in Glasgow, where he is now a respec- 
table merchant. I believe all these boys 
to the West Indies. Then there were two 
of l>r Malcolm, whom I have mentioned in my 
letter to Mrs Dunlop. The eldest, a verj 
worthy young man, went to the East Indies, 
where he had a commission in the army ; he it 
the person, whose heart my brother says the 
M unny Begum scenes could not corrupt. T' 
other," by the interest of Lady Wallace, got 
ensignej in a regiment raised by the duke of 






ing devotions. 



The cheerful supper done, w ith serious face, 

Ihey, round the ingle, form a circle wide; 

The sire turns o'er, wiih patriarchal grace, 

The big.Ae/7-Bible, oncehis father's pride: 

His bonnet rev'rentiy is laid aside, 

His lyart hafiets wearing thin and bare ; 
Those strains that once did sweet in Zion 
glide, 

i portion with judicious care ; 
" ■ ■*' t, 



Perhaps Dundee's f wild warbling measures 

Or plaintive Martyrs \ worthy of the name ; 
Or noble Elgin j beets the heavenly ilaiue, 

The sweetest far of Scotia's holy" lays ; 
Compared with these, Italian trills are tame ; 

The tickled ears no heartfelt raptures raise ; 
No uuiscn have they with our Creator's praise. 

The priest-like father reads the sacred page,£ 
How Ai rem was the frit ;;< of God on high; 

Or, Moses bade eternal warfare wage 
With Amalek's ungracious progeny ; 

Or how the royal La, "o did groaning lie. 
Beneath the stroke cf Heaven's avenging 

Or, Job's pathetic plaint, and wailing cry ; 



Hamilton, during the American war. I lelieve 
neither of them are now (1797) alive. We also 
knew the present Dr Pater.->on of Ayr, and a 
younger Irother of his now in Jamaica, who 
weie much younger than us. I bed almost 
forgot to mention Dr Charles of Ayr, who was 
a little olde.» thtn my brother, and with whom 
he had a longer and closer intimacy than with 
any of the others, which did not, however, con- 
tinue in after life. " 

i Names of tunes in Scottish psalmody. 
The tunes mentioned in this poem are the three 
which were used by \\ jiliani Burnes, who had 
no greater variety. 

; lhe course of familv devotion among the 
Soots is, first to sing a psalm, then to read a 
portion of scripture, and lastly to kneel down 



-Lirn. 



S3 



shed ; 
JTow he who bore in heaven thf second name. 

Had not on earth whereon f o lay his head ; 
How his first followers and servants sped ; 

The precepts sage they wrote to many a 

How he who lone in Palmos banished, 
Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand : 
And heard great Babylon's doom pronounced 
by Heaven's command! 

Then kneeling down toHeaven's eternalKing, 

The sai/i/,the/a//ie)-,and the husband prays; 
H..pe springs exulting on triumphant wing, 

That thus they all shall meet in future days; 
There ever bask in uncreated rays, 

No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear, 
Together hymning iheir Creator's praise, 

In such society, yet still more dear ; 
While circling time in^es round in an eternal 



Then homeward all take off their several way ; 

The youngling cottagers retire to rest ; 
The parent pair their scene* homage pay. 

And offer up to Heaven the warm request, 
That he whos;iils the raven's clam 'rou> nest. 

And decks the lily fair in flowery pride, 
Would in the way his wisdom sees the best, 

For them and for 'heir little ones provide ; 
But chiefly in their hearts with grace diriue 

Of a family so interesting as that which in- 
habited the cottage of William Burnes, and 
particularly of the father of the family, the 
reader will perhaps be svilling to listen to some 
farther account. What follows is given b\ one 
already mentioned with so much honour, in 
(he narrative of Gilbert Burns, Mr Murdoch, 
the preceptor of our poet, who, in a letter to 
Joseph Cooper Walker, Esq. of Dublin, author 
of the Historical Memoir <>/ tlie Italian Tragedy, 
lately published, thus expresses himself: 

SIR, 

" I was lately favoured with a letter from our 
worthy friend, the Rev. Wm. Adair, in \vh eh 
lie requested me to communicate to you what- 
ever particulars I could recollect concerning 
Robert Burns, the A\rshire poet. Mj business 
■nt multifarious and harassing, 



in, . 



m'd I „ 



o till 



■-%''- 



j in the habit of expressing mj 

thoughts on paper, that at this distance of tune 
I can give but a very imperfect sketch of the 
early part of the life of that extraordinary genius 
with which alone I am acquainted. 

"William Burnes, the father of the poet, 
was bom in the shire of Kincardine, and bred 
a gardener. He had been settled in Ayrshire 
teu or twelve years before I knew him, and 
had been in the service of Mr Crawford of 
Doonside. He was afterwards emplo\ed as a 
gardener and overseer by Provost Ferguson of 
Doonbolm, in the parish" of Allow av, which is 
no* united with that of Ayr. In "this p rish, 



on the rosd side, a Scotcb rui'e and a ha"f from 
the town of Ayr, and half a mile from tie 
bridge of Doon" William Burnes took a piece 
of land consisting of about seven acres, pert of 
which he laid out in garden ground, and part 
of which he kept to graze a cow, ic. still con- 
tinuing in the employ of Provost Ferguso::. 
Upon this little farm was erected an humble 
dwelling, of which William Burnes was the 
architect. It was, with the exception of a littie 
straw, literally a laberuacle of c;ay. In this 1 
mean cottage, of which I myself was at times 
aa inhabitant, I really believe there dwelt a 
lr.'.ger portion of content than in any palace in 
Europe. The Cotter s Saturday' Aight will 
give some idea of the temper and manners that 
prevailed there. 

" In 1765, about the middle of March. Mr 
W. Burnes came to Ayr, and sent to the 
school where I was improving in writing tind-r 
my good friend Mr Robison, desiring that I 
would come and speak to him at a certain inn, 
and bring my writing book with me. This 
was immediately complied with. Having ex- 
amined my wri;ii.g, he kj- pleased with it — 
(you will readily ailow he was not difficult), 
and told me that he had received very satisfac- 
tory information of Mr Tennant, the master of 
the English school, concerning nij improve- 
ment in English, and in Lis method of teach- 
ing. In the mouth of May following, I was 
engaged by Mr Burnes, and four of his neigh- 
bours to teach, and accordingly be?an to teach 
the little school at Alio way, which was situated 
a few yards from the argiiiacpous fabric above 
mentioned. My li\e employers undertook to 
board me by turns, and to make up a certain 
salary, at the end of the year, provided my 
quarterly payments from the different pupils 

" My pupil, Robert Burns, was then between 
six and seven years of age ; his preceptor aLo;it 
eighteen. Robert and his younger brother 
Gilbert, had been grounded a mile in Ei.s.isii 
before they were put under my eare. They 
both made a rapid prosres- in reading, and a 
tolerable progress in writing. In reading, di- 
viding words into syllables by r - 
without book, parsing sentences, &c. Piobert 
and Gilbert wer^generally a! the i 
the class, even when ranged with t 
their seniors. The book, most conin only used 
in the schools were the Spelling Book, the New 
Testament, the Bible. Mason's Co action f 
Prose and Verse, and Fishers English Gram- 
mar. They committed to memory the hymns, 
and other poems of that collection, with un- 
common facility. This facility was partly 
owing to the method pursued b\ their father and 
me in instructing them, which was, to make 
them thoroughly acquaiuled with the mean ng 
of every word in each sentence that was to be 
committed to memory. By the bye, this may 
be easier done, and at an earlier period, than is 
generally thought. As soon as they were 

capable of it, I taught them to luro verse into 
its natural prose oroer ; sometimes to substitute 
synonymous expressions for poetical words, and 
to supply all the ellipses. These, you know, 
are the means of knowing that the pupil under- 
stands his author. These are excellent helps to 
tha arrangement of words in sentences, as well 

'» Gilbert always appeared to me to possess a 



Si 



DIAMOND CA3IXET LIBRARY. 



more lively imagination, and to be more of the J 
wit, than "Robert. I alternated to teach thein 
a little church-music Here they were left fir j 
behind by all the rest of the school. Robert's 
ear. in particj'.ar, was remarkably dull, and his i 
voice untamable. It wa> lo:ig before I could 
ire; ihe u to distinguish one tune from another. 



muses, be would surely never ha-e guessed that 
Robert had a propensity of that kind. 

" In tile year 1767, Mr Burnes quitted his 
and took possession of a farm 
(Mount OliphauO of his own improving, while 
in the service of Provost Ferguson. This farm 
being at a considerable distance from the school, 
the boys could not attend regularly ; and some 
changes had taken place among the other sup- 
porters of the school, I left it, having continued 
to conduct it for nearly two years and a half. 

" In the year 17 72, I svas appointed (being 
one of five candidates who were examined) to 
teach the English school at Ayr; and in 17 73, 
Robert Burns came to board and lodge with 
me, for the purpose of revising English gram- 
mar, &c that he might be better qualified to 
instruct his brothers and sisters at home. He 
was now with ma day and night, in school, at 
all meals, and in all my walks. At the end of 
one week, I told him, that,- as he was now 
pretty much master of the parts of speech, &c, 
I should like to teach him something of French 
pronunciation, that when he should meet with 
the name of a French town, ship, officer, or 'he 
like, in the newspapers, he might be able to 
pronounce it something like a French word. 
Robert was glad to hear this proposal, and im- 
mediately we attacked the French with great 

" Now there was little else to be heard but 
the declension of nouns, the conjugation of 
rerbs, &c When walking together, and even 
at meals, I was constant'./ telling him th? names 
of different objects, as they presented them- 
selves, in French ; so that he was hourly laying 
in a stock of words, and sometimes little phras- 
es. In short, he took such pleasure in learn- 
ing, an 1 I in teaching, that it was difficult to 
say which of the two~was most zealous in the 
business ; and about the end of the second week 
of our study of the French, we bejan to read a 
little of the Adventures of TdsmacKas, in Fe- 
nelon's own words. 

"But now the plains of Mount Oliphant be- 
gan to whiten, and Robert was summoned to 
relinquish the pleasing scenes that surrounded 
I ilypso, and, armed with a sickle, 
to seek glory by signalizing himself in the fields 
-and so he did ; for although nut 
about fifteen, I was told that he performed the 
work of a man. 

Thu<* was I deprived of my very apt pupil, 
and consequently agreeable companion, at the 
end of three weeks, one of which wis spent 
entirely in the study of English, and the other 
two chieily in that "of French. I did not, how- 
ever, lose sight of him ; but was a frequent 
visiiant at his father's house, when I had my 
half-holiday, and very often went accompanied 
with one or two persons more intelligent than 



myself, that good William Burnes might enjoy 

a mental feast Then the labouring oar was 

shifted to some other hand. The father and 
the son sat down with us, when we enjoyed a 
conversation, wherein solid reasoning, sensible 
remark, and a moderate seasoning of jocularity, 
were so nicely blended as to render it palatable 
to all parties. Robert had a hundred questions; 
to ask me about the French, &c. ; and the 
father, who had always rational information in 
view, had still some question to propose to my 
more learned friends, upon moral or natural 
philosophy, or some such interesting subject. 
Mrs Burnes too was of the party as much as 
possible ; 

• But still the house affairs would draw her 

thence, 
Which ever as she could with haste despatch, 
She'd come again, and, with a greedy ear, 
Devour up their discourse, ' 

and particularly that of her husband. At all 
times, and in all companies, she listened to h::a 
with a more marked attention than to any body 
else. When under the necessity of being ab- 
sent while he was speaking, she seemed to 
regret, as a real loss, that she had missed what 
the good-man had said. This worthy woman, 
Agnes Brown, had the most thorough esteem 
for her husband of any woman I ever knew. I 
can by no means wonder that she highly es- 
teemed him ; for I myself have always consi- 
dered William Burnes as by far the best of the 
human race that ever I had the pleasure of be- 
ing acquainted with — and many a worthy 
character I have known. I can cheerfully join 
with Robert in the last line of his epitaph 
(borrowed from Goldsmith), 

• And ev'n his failings lean'd to virtue's side. 

" He was an excellent husband, if I may 
judge from his assid-mus attention to the ease 
and comfort of his worthy partner, and from 
her alectio-.iate behaviour to him, as well as 
her unwearied attention to the duties of a 

*' He was a tender and affectionate father; 
he took pleasure in leading his children in the 
path of virtue ; not in driving them, as some 
parents do, to the performance of duties to 
which they themselves are averse. He took 
care to find fault but very seldom ; and there 
fore, when he did rebuke, he was listeued to 
with a kind of reverential awe. A look of dis- 
approbation was felt ; a reproof was severely 
so ; and a stripe with the tat.*, even on the 
skirt of the coat, gave heart- felt pain, produced 
a loud lamentation, and brought forth a flood 
of tears, 

*« He had the art of gaining the esteem and 
good-will of those that were labourers und( 
him. I think I never saw him angry b. 
twice : the one time it was with the foreman t 
the band, for not reaping the field as he was 
desired ; and the other dine, it was with an 
old man, for using smutty innuendoes and double 
erJenares. Were every foul-mouthed old man 
to receive a seasonable check in this way, it 
would be to the advantage of the rising gener- 
ation. As he was at no time overbearing to 
inferiors, he was equally incapable of that 
passive, pitiful, paltry spirit, that induces sotn» 



BUa.«S LIFE. 



25 



people to keep booing and booing in the presence 
of a great man. He always treated superiors 
with a becoming respect ; but he never gave 
the smallest encouragement to aristocratieal 
arrogance. But I must not pretend to give 
you a description of a'.l the manly qualities, 
the rational and Christian virtues of the vener- 
able William Burues. Time would fail me. 
I shall only add, that he carefully practised 
every known duty, and avoided every thing 
that was criminal; or, in the apostle's words, 
Herein did he exercise himself, in living a life 
void of offence towards God and towards men. 

for a world of men of such dispositions ! We 
should then have no wars. I have often w ' ' 
ed, for the good of mankind, that it wer 
customary to honour and perpetuate the memory 
of those -who excel in moral rectitude, as 
to extol what are called heroic actions : 
would the mausoleum of the friend of my youth 
overtop and surpass most of the monuments I 
see iu Westminster Abbey. 

•* Although I cannot do justice to the char- 
acter of this worthy man, yet you will perceive, 
from these few particulars, what kind of person 
had the principal hand in the education of our 
poet- He spoke the English language with 
more propriety (both with respect to dk ' 
and pronunciation), than any man I ever k 
with no greater advantages. This had a very 
good effect on the boys, who began to talk, 
and reason like men, much sooner than their 
neighbours. I do not recollect any of their con- 
temporaries, at my little seminary, who after- 
wards made any great figure as literary cha- 
racters, except Dr Tennant, who was chaplain 
to Colonel Fullarton's regiment, and who is now 
in the East Indies. He is a man of genius and 
learning ; yet affable, and free from pedantry. 

" Mr Burnes, in a short time, found that he 
had overrated Mount Oliphant, and that he 
could not rear his numerous family upon it. — 
After being there some years, he removed to 
Lochlea, in the parish of Tarbolton, where, I 
believe, Robert wrote most of his poems. 

" But here, sir, you will permit me to pause. 

1 can tell you but little more relative to our 
poet. I shall, however, in my next, send you 
a copy of one of his letters to me, about "the 
year 1783. I received one since, but it is mi 
laid. Please remember me, in the best mai 
ner, to my worthy friend Mr Adair, when yi 
see him or write to him. 



As the narrative of Gilbert Burns was v 
te:i at a time when he was ignorant of the 
existence of the preceding narrative of hi 
brother, so this letter of Mr Murdoch wa 
writteD without his having any knowledge that 
either of his pupils had been emploved on 
same subject. The three relations serve, t!i 
fore, not merely to illustrate, but to authenti- 
cate each other. Though the information they 
convey might have been presented within 
shorter compass, by reducing the whole int 
one unbroken narrative, it is scarcely to be 
doubted, that the intelligent reader will be far 
more gratified by a sight of these original 
documents themselves. 

Under the humble roof of his parents, it 
appears indeed that our poet had jrreat advan- 
tiges ; but his opportunities of information at 



school were more limited as to time than they 
usually are among his countrymen, in his corA 
dition of life ; and the acquisitions which he 
made, and the poetical talent which he exerted, 
under the pressure of early and incessant toil, 
and of inferior, and perhaps scanty nutriment, 
testify at once the extraordinary force and 
activity of his mind. In his frame of body ha 
rose nearly to rive feet ten inches, and assumed 
the proportions that indicate agiiity as well as 
strength. In the various labours of the farm 
he excelled all his competitors. Gilbert Burns 
declares, that, in mowing, the exercise that 
tries all the muscles most severely, Robert was 
the only man that, at the end of a summer's 
day, he was ever obliged to acknowledge as his 
master. But though our poet gave the powers 
of his body to the labours of the farm, he re- 
fused to bestow on them his thoughts or his 
cares. While the ploughshare under his 
guidance passed through the sward, or the 
grass fell under the sweep of his scythe, he 
was humming the songs of his country, musing 
on the deeds of ancient valour, or rapt in the 
illusions of Fancy, as her enchantments rose 
on his view. Happily the Sunday is yet a sab- 
bath, on which man and beast rest from their 
labours. On this day, therefore, Burns could 
indulge in a freer intercourse with the charms 
of nature. It was his delight to wander alone 
on the banks of the Ayr, whose stream is now 
immortal, and to listen to the song of the 
blackbird at the close of the summer's day. 
But still greater was his pleasure, as he him- 
self informs us, in walking on the sheltered 
side of a wood, in a cloudy winter day, and 
hearing the storm rave among the trees ; and 
more elevated still his delight, to ascend some 
eminence during the agitations of nature, to 
stride along its summit, while the lightning 
flashed around him, and amidst the howlings 
of the tempest, to apostrophize the spirit of 
the storm. Such situations he declares most 
favourable to devotion—" Rapt in enthusiasm, 
I seem to ascend towards Him who traits on 
the wings of the wind .'" It other proofs were 
wanting of the character of His senius, this 
might determine it. The heart of the poet is 
peculiarly awake to every impression of beauty 
and sublimity; but with the higher order of poets 
the beautiful is less attractive^than the sublime. 
The gaiety of many of Burns 's writings, and 
the lively, and even cheerful colouring with 
which he has portrayed his own character, 
may lead some persons to suppose, that the 
melancholy which hung over him towards the 
end of his days, was not an original part of his 
constitution. It is not to be doubted, indeed, 
that this melancholy acquired a darker hue in 
the progress of his life ; but, independent of his 
own and of his brother's testimony, evidence 
is to be found among his papers, that he wa3 
subject very early to those depressions of mind, 
which are perhaps not wholly separable from 
the sensibility of genius, but which in him rose 
to an uncommon degree. The following letter, 
addressed to his father, will serve as a proof of 
this observation. It was written at the time 
when he was learning the business of a flax- 
dresser, and is dated 

Irvine, Dec. 27, 1731. 
" Honoured Sir, 
" I have purposely delayed writing, in the 



S6 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



hope that I shonld have the pleasure i f seeing 
ycu on New-year's day; but wotk eomts so 
Lard upon us, that I do cot choose to te absent 
on that account, as well as for some other little 
reasons, which I shall tell ycu at meeting. » y 
health :s nearly the san;e "as when vcu were 
here, only my sleep is a little sounder, and, on 
the whole. I am rather better than otherwise, 
though I mend by very slow degrees The 
weakness of my nerves has so debilitated my 
mind, that I dare neither review post wants, 
i>cr look forward into futurity ; for the least 
anxiety or perturbation in my breast, produces 
most unhappy effects on my whole frame. 
Sometimes, indeed, when for an hour or two 
my spirits are a little lightened, I glimmer a 
little into futurity ; but my principal, and 
indeed my only pleasurable employment, is 
looking backwards and forwards in a moral 
and religious way. I am quite transported at 
the thought, that ere long, perhaps very soon, 
1 shall bid an eternal adieu to all the pains, and 
uneasinesses, and disquietudes of this weary 
life : for I assure you 1 t.m heartily tired cf it ; 
and, if I do not very much deceive myself, I 
could contentedly and giadly resiga it. 

Rests ' 

"It is for this reason I am more pleased 
with the loth, ICith, and 1 7th verses of the 7th 

as many verses in the whole Bible, "and would 
not exchange the noble enthusiasm with which 
they inspire me for all that this world has to 
offer. As fcr this world, I de-pair cf ever 
making a figure in it. I am not formed fcr the 
bustle of the busy, nor the flutter of the gay. I 
shall never again be capable of entering into 
such scenes. Indeed I am altogether uncon- 
cerned at ihe thoughts of this life. I foresee 
that poverty and obscurity probably await me, 
and 1 am in some measuie prepared, and daily 
preparing to meet them. 1 have but just time 
and paper to return you my grateful thanks for 
the lessons of virtue and piety ycu have given 
me, which were too much" neglected at the 
time of giving them, but which, I hope, have 
been remembered ere it is yet too late. Pre- 
sent mv dutiful respects to mv mother, and my 
compliments to Xv and Mrs'^iuir; and, with 
j you a merry New-year's-day, I shall 



humble, though wholesome nutriment, it 
appears was nearly exhausted, and he was 
about to borrow tili'he should obtain a supply. 
^ et eveu in this situation, his rciive imagina- 
tion had formed to itself pictures of eminence 
.. Kis despair cf making a 
figure in the world, shows how ardently" he 
wished for honourable fame ; and his contempt 
Ed on this despair, is the genuiu* 
expression of a youthful generous mind. In 
such a state cf reflection, and of sufitvii c, the 
imagination of Burns natural!} passed the daik 
boundaries of cur earthly horizon, and rested 
on those beautiful representations of a be;ter 
wcrid, where there is neither thirst, nor hun- 
ger, nor sorrow, and where happiness shall be 
in proportion to the capacity of happiness. 

Such a disposition is far from Leii.g at 
variance with social enjoyments. Those ^ 



of mind, 
description, after a while, 
ndearuients of society, and 
n with the tow 
the extravagance of 



studied tl 
melancholy of this 
seeks relief in the < 
that it has no distant 
of cheerfulness, or i 

mirth. It was a few days after the writing of 
this letter that cur poet, *" in giving a welcom- 
ing carousal to the new vear, with his gay 
companions," suffered his i!ax to catch tire, 
and his shop to be consumed to a=hes. 

Ihe energ\ of turns' n:::.u was not exhanst- 
•ily labours, the efiiisions if kia 
social pleasures, or his soi i.,iy medi- 
Some time previous to his tupp.ge- 
a Unx-e.re-tec, huMi-.g heard that a 
debating club had been established in Ayr, he 
' ' - try how such a meeting would sue- 
le village of Tarboiton. About the 
year 17S0, our pott, his brother, 
ana r.ve other young peasants of the neighbour- 
hood, formed themselves into a society of this 
bared objects of which i 



ed by his t 



end of tl 



s. thei 



:: d fri< 



es aft. 

.-Lip, ana. 



o promote sociality 
lprove the mind 'iho 
e furnished by turns. 
et after ihe labours of 
? a week, in a small 
i-e; where each should 

■■"-' ■u.-.a.t 

; to be conducted with 



conelut 



1 la 



l, honoured sir, 
Your dut-Yul son, 

" ROBERT BURNS." 



This letter, written several years before the 
publication of his poems, when his name was 
as obscure as his condition -was humble, dis- 
plays the philosophic melancholy which so 
generally forms the poetical temperament, and 
that buoyant and ambitious spirit which indi- 
cates a "mind conscious of its strength. At 
lr\'.ne. Burns at this time possessed a single 
room for his lodgings, rented perhaps at the 
rate of a shilling a week. He passed his days 
in constant labour as n flax-dresser, and his 
food consisted chiefly cf oatmeal sent to him 
from his father's family. Ihe store of this 



pui. iie-house in ibe v 
offer his opinion on a 
supporting it by such 
proper The debate 
order and decorum ; a; id 
the members were to cb« 

cussion at the ensuing meeting. The sum 
expended by each, was not to exceed three 
pence ; and, with the humble potation that 
this could pocure, they were to toast their 
mistresses, and to cultivate friendship with 
each other. This society Continued its meet- 
ings regularly for some time; and in the 
autumn of ]7S2, wishing to preserve some 
acccur.ts of their proceedings, they purchased 
a book, into which their laws and" regulations 
were copied, with a presinole, containing a 
short history of their transactions uown to .hat 
period. This curious document, which is 
evidently the work of our poet, has been 
discovered, and it deserves a place in his n.e- 



BURNS. LIF2. 






e mind, il h 



• ' As the great end of h 
become wiser and better, tl 
to be the principal view of e 
station of life. But as exp 
us, that such studies as in 
mend the heart, when long- 
to exhaust the faculties oi 
been found proper to relieve and unbend the 
mind by some employment or another, that 
may be agreeable enough to keep its powers in 
exercise, but at the same time not so serious as 
to exhaust them. But superadded to this, by 
far the greater part of mankind are under the 
necessity of earning tlw sustenance of human 
life by the labour of their bodies, whereby, not 
only the faculties of the mind, but the nerves 
and sinews of the body, are so fatigued, that it 
is absolutely necessary to have recourse to some 
amusement or diversion, to relieve the wearied 
man worn down with the necessary labours 
of life. 



dissip 



and 



ad t; 



madne 



l of r 






.:> i' ■ 



grand design of hum; 

with extravagance and folly 

guilt and wretchedness. Irar 

considerations, we, (he following lads in tht 

parish of Tarbolton, viz. Hugh Reid, Rober! 

Burns, Gilbert Burns, Alexander Brown, 

Walter Mitchel, Thomas Wright, and William 

M'Gavin, resolved, for our mutual entertain- 

ment, to unite ourselves into a club, or society, 

under such rules and regulations, that while we 

should forget our cares and labours in mirth 

bounds of innocence and decorum : and aftei 



e heldo 



other 



=gu!al 



irst meeting at Tarbolton. in the 
house of John Richard, upon the evening of tbe 
11th of November, 1780, commonly called 
Ha lowe'en, und after choosing Robert Burns 
president for the night, we proceeded to debate 
on this question, — ' Suppose a young man, bred 
a farmer, but without any fortune, has it in his 
power to marry either of I wo women, the one a 
girl of large fortune, but neither handsome in 
person, nor agreeable in conversation, but who 
can manage the hou-e.n! i affairs of a farm well 
enough ; the other of them a girl every way 
agreeable in person, conversation, and be- 
haviour, but without any fortune : which of 
them shall he choose ?* Finding ourselves very 
happy in our society, we resolved to 



mth in the s 



n the 



way and manner proposed, and shortly thereaf- 
ter we chose Robert Ritchie for another mem- 
ber. In May, 1781, we brought in David Sil- 
lar,* and in June, Adam Jamison as members. 
About the beginning of the year 1782, we ad- 
mitted Matthew Patterson, and John Orr, and 
in June following we chose James Patterson as 
a proper brother for such a society. The club 
being thus increased, we resolved to meet at 
Tarbo'.ton on the race night, the July follow- 



good humour, that every brother will long 
remei.ber it with pleasure and delight." To 
this preamble are subjoined tbe rules and re- 



lst. The club shall meet at Tarbolton every 
fourth iMonday night, when a question on any 
bject shall be propo=ed, disputed points of 
ligion only excepted, in the manner hereafter 
reeled ; which question is to be debated iri the 
ub, each member taking whatever side bo 
thinks proper. 

2d. When the club is met, the president, or, 
he failing, some one of the members, till he 

bers shall seat themselves ; those who are for 
l? side of the question, on the president's right 
haud ; and those who are for the other side,' on 
left; which of them shall have the right 
hand is to be determined by the president. 
The president and four of the members being 
present shall have power to transact any ordi- 
nary part of the society's business. 

3d. The club met and seated, the president 
jail read the question out of the club's book of 
records, C which book is always to be kept by the 
president) then the two members nearest" the 
president shall cast lots who of them shall speak 
""' ~nd according as the lot shall determine, 



member 
il driver 



. the 



on that 



side 



the other side shall reply to him ; then 
the second member of the side that spoke lirst ; 
hen the second member of the s de that spoke 
econd, and so on to the end of the company ; 



rnbers of the 



but if there be fewer i 

the other, when all the n 
least side have spoken according to their, places, 
my of them, as they please among themselves, 
may reply to the remaining members of the op- 
posite side; when bo:h sides have spoken, the 
resident shall give his opinion, after which 
ley may go ovt it a second or mora times, and 

4h. The cluo shall then proceed to the 
too;,; of a question for the subject of next 
ighl 's meeting. The president shall tiist pro- 
pose one, and any o.her member who ch oosres 
may propose more questions ; and whatever ona 
of them is most agreeable to the majority of tile 
ibers, shall be the subject of debate next 
club-night. 
_ 5th. The club shall, lastly, elect a new pre- 
sident for the next meeting ; the president shall 
first name one, then any of the club may name 
mother, and whe sver of them has the majority 
jf votes shall be duly elected; allowing the 
president the first vote, and the casting vote 
upon a par, but none other. Then after a 
general toast to mistresses of the club, they 
fhall dismiss. 

6th. Ihere shall be no pr'vate conversation 

;arried on during the time of debate, nor shall 

my member interrupt another while he is 

_ .peaking, under the penalty of a reprimand 

j from the president, for the first fault, doubling 



DIAMOND CABINET i-I2HARY. 



The pbilosophical mind will dwell with in- 
terest and pleasure on an institution that com 
bined so skilfully the means of instruction and 
of happiness ; and if grandeur look down with 
a smile on these simple annals, let us trust that 
it will be a smile of benevolence and approba- 
tion. It is with rezret thai the sequel of the 
history of the Bachelor's Club of Tarbolton 
must be told. It survived several years after 
our poet removed from Ayrshire, but, no longer 
sustained by his talents, or cemented by his 
social affections, its meetings lost much of 
their attraction ; and at length, in an evil hour, 
dissension arising amongst its members, the 
institution was given up, and the records 
committed to the flames. Happily the preamble 
and the regulations were spared ; and as mat- 
ter of instruction and of example, they are 
transmitted to posterity. 

After the family of our bard removed from 
Tarbolton to the neighbourhood of Mauchline, 
he and his brother were requested to assist in 
forming a simiu institution" there. The regu- 
lalions"of the club at Mauchline were nearly 
the same as those of the club at Tarbolton ; 
but one laudable alteration was made. The 
fines for non-attendance had at Tarbolton been 
spent in enlarging their scanty potations : at 
Mauchline it was fixed, that the money so aris- 
ing, should be set apart for the purchase of 
books; and the first work procured in this 
manner was the Mirror, the separate numbers 
of which were at that time recently collected 
and published in volumes. After it followed a 
number of ether works, chiefly of the same 
nature, and among these the Lounger. The 
society of Mauchline still subsists, and was in 
the list of subscribers to the first edition of the 
works of its celebrated associate. 

The members of these two societies were 
originally all young men from the country, and 
chiefly sons of farmers ; a description of per- 
sons, in the opinion of our poet, more agreeable 
in their manners, more virtuous in their con- 



his share of the reckoning for the second ; tre- 
bling it for the third, and so on in proportion 
for every other fault; provided always, how- 
ever, that any member may speak at any time 
after leave asked and given by the president. 
All swearing and profane language, and par- 
ticularly all obscene and indecent conversat on, 
is strictly prohibited, under the same penalty 
as aforesaid in the first clause of this article. 

7th. No member, on any pretence whatever, 
shall mention any of the club's affairs to any 
other person but a brother member, under the 
pain of being excluded ; and particularly, if 
any member shall reveal any of the speeches 
or affairs of the club, with a view to ridicule 
or laugh at any of the rest of the members, he 
shall be for ever excommunicated from the 
society ; and the rest of the members are de- 
sired,"as much as possible, to avoid, and have 
no communication with him as a friend or 
comrade. 

8th. Every member shall attend at the meet- 
ing's, without he can give a proper excuse 
for not attending ; and it is desired that every 
one who cannot attend will send his excuse 
with some other member ; and he who shall 
be absent three meetings without sending such 
excuse, shall be summoned to the club-night, 



duct, and more susceptible of improvement, 
than the self-sufficient mechanic of country 
towns. With deference to the Conversation- 
society of Mauchline, it may be doubted, whe- 
ther the books which they purchased were of a 
kind best adapted to promote the interest and 
happiness of persons in this situation of life. 
The Mir, or and the Lounger, though works of 
great merit, may be said, on a general view of 
their contents, to be less calculated to increase 
the knowledge, than to refine the taste of those 
who read them ; and to this last object their 
morality itself, which is however always per- 
fectly pure, may be considered as subordinate. 
As works of taste they deserve great praise. 
They are, indeed, refined to a high degree of 
delicacy ; and to this circumstance it is perhaps 
owing, that they exhibit little or nothing of 
the peculiar manners of the age or country in 
which tbey were produced. But delicacy of 
taste, though the source of many pleasures, is 
not without some disadvantages ; and to render 
it desirable, the possessor should perhaps in 
all cases be raised above the necessity of bodily 
labour, unless indeed we should include under 
this term the exercise of the imitative arts, over 
which taste immediately presides. Delicacy 
of taste may be a blessing to him who has the 
disposal of his own time, and who can choose 
what bock he shall read, of what diversion he 
shall partake, and what company he shall keep. 
To men so situated, the cultivation of taste af- 
fords a grateful occupation in itself, ani opens 
a path to many other gratifications. To men 
of genius, in the possession of opulence and 
leisure, the cultivation of the taste may be said 
to be essential ; since it affords employment to 
those faculties which, without employment, 
would destroy the happiness of the possessor, 
and corrects that morbid sensibility, or, to use 
the expression of Mr Hume, that delicacy cf 
passion, which is the bane of the temperament 
of genius. Happy had it been for our bard, 
after he emerged from the condition of a pea- 



when, if he fail to appear, or send an excuse, 
he shall be excluded. 

9th. The club shall not consist of more than 
sixteen members, all bachelors, belonging to 
the parish of Tarbolton ; except a brother 
member marry, and in that case he may be 
continued, if'the majority of the club think 
proper. No person shall be admitted a mem- 
ber of this society, without the unanimous 
consent of the club ; and any member may 
withdraw from the club altogether, by giving 
notice to the president in writing of his depar- 

10th. Every man proper for a member of 
this society, must have a frank, honest, open 
heart ; above any thing dirty or mean, and 
must be a professed lover of" one or more of 
the female sex. No haughty, self-conceited 
percon, who looks upon himself as superior to 
the rest of the club, and especially no mean- 
spirited, worldly mortal, whose only will is to 
heap up money, shall upon any pretence what- 
ever be admitted. In short, the proper person 
for this society, is a cheerful honest-hearted 
lad, who, if he has a friend that is true, and a 
mistress that is kind, and as much wealth as 
genteelly to make both ends meet — is just as 
happy as this world can make him. 



BURNS LIFE. 



Bi 



aant, had the delicacy of his taste equalled the 
sensibility of his passions, regulating all the 
effusions of his muse, and presiding over all 
his social enjoyments. But to the thousands 
who share the original condition of Burns, and 
who are doomed to pass their lives iu the sta- 
tion in which they were burn, delicacy of taste, 
were it even of easy attainment, would, if not a 
positive evil, be at least a doubtful blessing. 
Delicacy of taste may make many necessary 
labours irksome or disgusting ; and should 
it render the cultivator of the soil unhappy in 
his situation, it presents no means by which 
that situation may be im roved. Taste and 
literature, which diffuse so many charms 
throughout society, which sometimes secure to 
their votaries distinction while living, and 
pvhich still more frequently obtain for them 
posthumous fame, seldom procure opulence, 
or even independence, when cultivated with 
the utmost attention, and can scarcely be pur- 



sued with advantage by the pi 
intervals of leisure which his occupations allow. 
Those who raise themselves from the condi- 
tion of daily labour, are usually men who excel 
in the practice of some useful art, or who join 
habits of industry and sobriety to an acquain- 
tance with some of the mere common branches 
of knowledge. The penmanship of Eutter- 
worth, and the arithmetic of Cocker, may be 
studied by men in the humblest walks of fife ; 
and they will assist the peasant more in the 
pursuit of independence, than the study of 
Homer or of Shakspeare, though he could 
comprehend, and even imitate, the beauties of 
those immortal bards. 

These observations are not offered without 
some portion of doubt and hesitation. The 
subject has many relations, and would justify 
an ample discussion. It may be observed, on 
the other hand, that the lirst step to improve- 
ment is to awaken the desire of improvement, 
and that this will be most effectually done by 
such reading as interests the heart and excites 
the imagination. The greater part of the sacred 
writings themselves, which in Scotland are 
more especially the manual of the poor, come 
under this description. It mav be farther ob- 
served, that every human being is the proper 



w4~e 



K.ppin 



vithin t 



path of innocence, ought to be permitted to 
pursue it. Since it is the taste of the Scottisli 
peasantry to give a preference to works of taste 
and of fancy.* It may be presumed they find 
a superior gratification in the perusal of such 
works ; and it may be added, that it is of more 
consequence they should be made happy in their 
original condition, than furnished with the 
means, or with the desire, of rising above it. 
Such considerations are doubtless of much 
weight ; nevertheless, the previous reflections 
may deserve to be examined, and here we shall 
leave the subject. 

Though the records of the society at Tarbol- 
ton are lost, and those of the society at Mauch- 
line have not been transmitted, yet we may 



* In several lists of book-societi-s araon; th 
poorer classes in Scotland which the Editc 
has seen, works of this description form 
great part. These societies are by no mraii 
gchorul, and it is not supposed that they at 
increasing at present. 



safely affirm, that our poet was a distinguished 
member of both these associations, which were 
well calculated to excite and to develope the 
powers of his mind. From seven to twelve 
persons constituted the society at Tarbolton, 
and such a number is best suited to the pur- 
poses of information. Where this is the object 
of these societies, the number should be such, 
that each person may have an opportunity of 
imparting his sentiments, as well as of receiv- 
ing those of others ; and the powers of private 
conversation are to be employed, not those of 
public debate. A limited society of this kind, 
where the subject of conversation is fixed 
beforehand, so that each member may revolve 
it previously in his mind, is perhaps one of the 
happiest contrivances hitherto discovered for 
shortening the acquisition of knowledge, and 
hastening the evolution of talents. Such an 
association requires indeed somewhat more of 
regulation than the rules of politeness esta- 
blished in common conversation ; or rather, per- 
haps, it requires the rules of politeness, which 
in animated conversation are liable to perpe- 
tual violation, should be vigorously enforced. 
The order of speech established in the club at 
Tarbolton, appears to have been more regular 
than was required in so small a society ; where 
all that is necessary seems to be, the fixing cu 
a member to whom every speaker shall address 
himself, and who shall in return secure the 
speaker from interruption. Conversation, 
which among men whom intimacy and friend- 
ship have relieved from reserve and restraint, 
is liable, when left to itself, to so many 
inequalities, and which, as it becomes rapid, 
so often diverges into separate and collateral 
branches, in which it is dissipated and lost, 
being kent within its channel by a simple limi- 
tation of this kind, which practice renders easy 
and familiar, Hows along in one full stream, 
and becomes smoother, and clearer, and deeper, 
as it flows. It may also be observed, that in 
this way the acquisition of knowledge becomes 
more pleasant and more easy, from the gradual 
improvement of the faculty employed to convey 
it. Though some attention has been paid 10 
the eloquence of the senate and the bar. which 
in this, as in all other free governments, is pro- 
ductive of so much influence to a few who ex- 
cel in it. yet little regard has been paid to the 
humbler exercise of speech in private conversa- 
tion, an art that is of consequence to every 
description of persons under every form of 
government, at;d on which eloquence of every 
kind ought perhaps to be founded. 

The lirst requisite of every kind of elocution, 
a distinct utterance, is the offspring of much 
time, and of long practice. Children are always 
defective in clea~r articulation, and so are young 
people, though in a less degree. YYhat is 
called slurring in speech, prevails with some 
persons through life, especially in those who 

reach its utmost degree of distinctness in men 
before the age of twenty, or upwards: in wo- 
men it reaches this point somewhat earlier.^ 
Female occupations require much use of 
speech, because they are duties in detail. Be- 
sides, their occupations being generally scden- 
larv, the respiration is left at liberty. Their 
nerves being more delicate, their sensibility as 
well as fancy is more lively ; the natural conse- 
quence of which is, a more frequent utterance 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



of thought, a greater fluency of speech, and a 
distinct articulation at an earlier age. But in j 
men who have not mingled eai 
with the worid, though rich perhaps in know- j 
ledge, and clear itTapprehension, it is often '■ 
painful to observe the difficulty with which 
their ideas are communicated by 

- I : ;e want of .hose habi:s, that connect 
■ ..... 

sponta:.; . in truth, are the 

* and p unful practice, ai«d when 
the phenomena of m 






Meties then, such as we have been describ- 

. . •: 1 to put each meni- 

Ksession of the knowledge of all the 

. e , and by 

- : opinion, excite the faculties of 

it and reflection. To those who wish to 

ids iu such intervals of labour 

if a peasant allows, this aie- 

...... .... - ; : •,.:._ r 

proper regulations, be highlj useful. To the 
student, whose opinions, springing out of soli- 
:.i and meditation, are seldom in 
the lirst instance correct, and which have not- 
withstanding, while cor.iined to himself, an 



° -".^rations. And to men who, hav- 
ing cultivated letters or general science in the 
course of their education, are engaged in the 
active occupations of life, and no longer able to 
devote to stndy or to books the time requisite 
for improving or preserving their acquisitions, 
associations of this kind, where the mind may 
unbend from its usual cares in discussions of 
literature or science, aScrd the :. 
the most useful, and I . 
tificatieas- * 

Whether, in the humble societies of which 

be uber, Burns acquired much direct 

perhaps be questioned. It 

cannot ho wet er be doubted, th;: 

the faculties of his mind Id be excited, that 

n would be 



* 'When letters and philosophy were culti- 
vated in ancient Greece, the 

he tallets of learning and seience, 
produced the habit of s 
it were in common. Poets were found reciting 
their own verses in public asse-r. fc 
lie schools onlv philosophers delivered their 
ipeculations. The taste of the hearers, the 

: ?he scholar;, wen 

- L.!iJ examining the • 
aud of speculation submitted to their consider- 
ation, and the irreroezke tcords were not given 
to the worio . .., as well as 

the sentiments, were again and again retouched 
and improved. Death alone put the last seal 
on the labours of genius. Hence, perhaps, 
rnaj be in part explained the extraordinary art 
and skill with which the monum 
ciar. literature that remain to us 
- . acted. 



established, and thus we have seme exp'anation 
of that early command of words and of expres- 
sion which enabled him to pour forth his 
thoughts -in language not unworthy of his 
genius, and which, of all his endowments, 
seemed, on his appearance in Edinburgh, the 
most extraordinary, r For associations of a 
literary nature, our poet acquired a considerable 
relish ; ajd happy had it been fcr him, after he 
emerged from the condition of a peasant, if 
fortune had permitted him to enjoy them in the 
degree of which he was capable, so as to have 
fortified his principles of virtue ty the purifica- 
tion of his taste, and given to the energies of 
his mind habits of exertion thct • 
eluded oilier associations, in which it must t 
acknowledged they were too oAc 
well as debased. 

The whole course of the Ayr is fine; bt 
the banks of that river, as it bends to ihe eas. 
ward above Mauehline, are singularly beautiful, 
and they were frequent^, as liny be" imagined, 
by our poet in his solitary i 
muse often visited him. In one of these wan- 
derings, he met among the woods a celebrated 
Beauty of the west of Scotland ; a lsdy, cf 
whom it is said, that the charms of her person 
correspond with the character cf her mind. 
This incident gave rise, as nneht be expected, 
to a poem, of which an account will be found 
in the following letter, iu which he inclosed it 
". . the . I of his inspiration : 

TO XI53 

Mossgiel, \Si-:Xcr. 1783. 
' ' Madam, 
"Poets are si 90 much the 

children of wayward fancy and capricious 
whim, that I believe the world generally allows 
them a larger latitude in the laws of propriety, 
than the sober sons of judgment and prudence, 
I mention this as an a 
that a nameless stranger lias tak 
. • .. roein, which he I 
present you - n^s poetical 

merit any way worthy of the theme, I am not 
the proper judge; but it is the br= 
can produce; and what to a good heart will 
ptrhaps be a superior grace, it is equally sin- 
cere as fervent. 



f It appears that cur Foet made more pre- 
paration than mi.cht be supposed, for the dis- 
cussions of the society at Tarboiton. — There 
were found some detached memoranda evidently 
preparedfor the^e meetings ; _:ii among others, 

5 peech on the question mp-iilioaed 
:;eh, as might be expeciid, ho 
takes the imprudent side of the question. The 
following may inecimen of 

the questions debated :n the society at Tarbol- 
— ...r do we derive more happiness 

from love or friendship? — Whethc 

!.ave no reason to doubt each 
hip, there should be any re- 
serve ? —\\\_ _-; man, or the 
peasant of a civilized country, in the most 
happy situation ? — Whether is a young man of 

s vflife likeliest to be I 
has got a good education, and fa .- 
informed, or he who has just the 
information :. 



BURNS. -LIFE. 



" The scenery was nearly taken from real 
life, though I dare say, madam, you do not 
recollect it, as I believe you scarcely noticed 
the pontic revew as he wandered by you. I 
had roved out as chance directed, in the favour- 
ite haunts of my muse, on the banks of the 
Avr, to view nature iu all the gaiety of the 
venial year. The evening sun \vas"i~iaming 
over the distant western hills : not a breath 
stirred the crimson opening blossom, or the 
verdant spreading leaf. It was a golden mo- 
ment for a poetic heart. I listened to the fea- 
thered warblers, pouring their harmony on every 
hand, with a congenial kindred regard, and 
frequently turned out of my path, lest I should 
disturb their little songs, "or frighten them to 
another station. Surely, said 1 10 myself, he 
must be a wretch indeed, who, regardless of 
your harmonious endeavour to please him, can 
eye your elusive ilights to discover your secret 
recedes, and to rob you of all the property- 
nature gives you, your dearest comforts, your 
helpless nestlings. Eveu tne hoary hawthoru- 
twig that shot across the way. what heart at 
such a time but must have been interred in 
its welfare, and wished it preserved from the 
rudely-browsing cattle, or the withering eastern 
blast? Such was the scene, a id such the hour, 
whea in a corner of my prospect, I spied one 
of the fairest pieces of Nature's workmanship 
that ever crowaed a pontic landscape, or met a 
poet's eye, taose visionary bards excepted who 
h >ld commerce with aerial beings! H\d 

Calumny and Villany taken my walk, they had 
at that moment sworn eternal peace with such 
an object. 

"W.iata, 

j." inclosed sanj was the work of my re- 
lome; and perhaps it but poorly answers 
alight be expected from such a scene. 
" I have the honour to be, 
«■ Madam. 

•• Your mo t obedient, and very 



'Twas even — the dewy field? were eret 

Oa every blade tne pearls hang ;* 
The Zephyr wanton 'd round the bean. 

And bore its fragrant sweets aia.ig ; 
Ll everv glen the mavis sang, 

All nature listening seerrnd the whii 
Except wnere green- wood echoes rang 

Anting the braes o' Ballochmyle. 

•aved, 



leu fair I chance 



e morn in flowery May, 



* Han?. Scotticism for hung. 

f Variation. The lily \ hue anil rose's dye 

Bespoke the lass o'B-illochar. le. 



Tliere all her charms she does compile 
Eveu there her other works are futl'd 
By the bonny lass o' Bailochmyle. 



O had she been a cc 
And I the happy 



untry - 



aid, 



jgh sheltered in the low™. „. 

That every rose on Scotland's plain. 
Thro'jjh weary winter's wind and rain, 

With joy, with rapture, I wouid toil, 
And nigutly to my bosom strain 

The bouuy lass o' Ballochmyle. 

Then pride might climb the slippery steep, 

Where fame and honours lofty shine ; 
Aud thirst of gold might temot the deep. 

Or downward seek the Indian mine: 
Give me the cot below the pine, 

To tend the flocks or till the soil, 
And every day have joys divine, 

With the bonny lass o' Ballochmyle. 

In the manuscript book in which our poet 
has recounted this incident, and into which 
the letter ana pae.n are copied, he complains 
that the lady made no reply to his effusions, 
and this appears to have wounded his self-love. 
It is not, however, difficult to find an excuse 
for her silence. Burns was at that time little 
known, and where known at all, noted rather 
for the will strength of his humour, than for 
those strains of tendernc-ss. in which he after- 
wards so muca excelled. To th; lady herself 
his name had perhaps never been mentioned, 
ani of such a poem she might not consider 
herself as the proper judge. Ker modesty might 
prevent her from perceiving that the muse of 
i'ibullus breathed in this nameless poet, and 
that her beauty was awakening s'rains destined 
to immortality on the banks of the Ayr. It 
may be conceived, also, that supposmg the 
verses duly appreciated, delicacy might iiud 
it difficult to express its acknowledgments. 
The fervent imagination of the rustic bard pos- 
sessed more of tenderness than of respect. In- 
stead of raising himself to the condition of the 
object of his admiration, he presumed to reduce 
her to his own, aud to strain this high-born 
beauty to his daring bosom. It is true, Burns 
might have found precedents for such freedoms 
among the poets of Greece and Rome, and in. 
deed of every country. And it is not to be 
denied, that lovely women have generally sub- 
mitted to this sort of profanation with patience, 
and even with goad humour. To what purpose 
is it to repine at a misfortune which is the n •- 
cessary eon.-e raance of their own charms, or 
to remonstrate with a description of men who 
are incapable of control? 



It may be easily presumed, that the beautiful 
nymph of Ballochmyle, whoever she may have 
been, did not reject with scorn the adorations 
of our poet, though she received them yvitii 
sUe.it ni i lesty and dignified reserve. 

'iiie sensibility of our bards tempor, and 
lh- force of if.- 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



particular manner to the impressions of beauty; 
and these qualities united to his impassioned 
eloquence gave him in turn a powerful influ- 
ence over the female heart. 'Ihe banks of 
the Ayr formed the scene of youthful passions 
of a still tenderer nature, the history of which 
it would be improper to reveal, were it even in ' 
our power, and the traces of which will soon j 
be discoverable only in those strains of nature 
and sensibility to which thc-y gave birth. I 
The song entitled Highland Mary, is known 
to relate to one of these attachments. "It 
was written," says our bard, ** on one of the ; 
most interesting passages of niy youthful days, " 
The object of this passion died early in'life, 
end the impression left on the mind of Burns 
seems to have been deep and lasting. Several 
Tears afterwards, when he was removed to 
Nithsdale, he gave vent to the sensibility of his 
recollections in the following impassioned 
lines : in the manuscript book from which we 



" The farm of Mossgiel, at the time of our 
coming to it (Martinmas, 17S3\ was the pro. 
perty of the earl of Loudon, but was held ia 
tick by Mr Gavin Hamilton, writer in Mauch- 
hne, from whom we had our bargain ; who had 
thus an opportunity of knowing and showing a 
sincere regard for my brother, before he knew 
that he was a poet. The poet's estimation of 
ig outlines of his character, 



Mr H. entered very warmly i 
and promoted the subscripts 
Mr Robert Aiken, writer in 
worth and taste, of warm affections, and con- 
respectable circle of friends 
' is gentleman The 



y extensively. 



Thou lingering star, with lessenin? ray, 

That levest to greet the early morn," 
Again thou usher 'st in the day 

My Mary from my soul was torn. 
O Marv '. dear departed shade ! 

Where is :hy blissful place of rest ? 
Seest thou thy" lover lowly laid ? 

Hear 'si thou the groans that rend his breast ? 
ITiat sacred hour can I forget, 

Can I forget the hallow 'd grove, 
Where by the winding Ayr we met, 

To live one day of parting love '. 
Eternity will not efface 

Those records dear of transports past ; 
Thy image at our last embrace ; 

Ah ! Utile thought we 'twas onr last ! 
Avr gargling kiss'd his pebbled shore, 

"O Whung with wild woods thick 'ning green : 
The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hear, 

Twined amorous round the raptured scene. 
The flowers sprang wanton to be press 'd, 

The birds sang love on every J7 . . 
Till too, too scon the glowing west " 

Proclaim 'd the speed of w nged day. 
Still o'<y these scenes my mem 

And ioudiy broods with miser eire ; 
Time but the impre.sion deeper Brakes, 

As streams their channels deeper wear. 
My Mary, dear departed shade I 

Where is thy blissful place of rest ? 

t lear 'st thou the groans that rend his breast ? 

To the delineations of ihe poet by himself, 
by his brother, and by his tutor, these additions 
are necessary, in order that the reader may tee 
his character in its various aspects, and may 
an opportunity of forming a just notion of 



* The history of the poems formerly printed, 
will be found at the end of the volume. — It is 
there inserted in the words of Gilbert Eurns, 
w ho, in a letter addressed to the Editor, has 
given the following account of the friends 
which Robert's talents procured him before he 



Ir-ft Ayrshire 



attracted the notice of the 



and relalior 

Cotter's Saturday Night is inscribed. The 
poems of my brother, which I have formerly 
mentioned, no sooner came into his hands, than 
they were quickly known, and well received in 
the extensive circle of Mr Aiken's friends, 
which gave them a sort of currency, necessary 
iu this wise world, even for the good reception 
of tbings valuable in themselves. But Mr 
Aiken not only admired the poet ; as soon as he 
became acquainted with him, he showed the 
_ rd for the man, and did every 
thing in his power to forward his interest and 
respectability. The Epistle to a Young Friend 
was addressed to this gentleman's sen, Mr A. 
II. Aiken, now of Liverpool. He was the 
oldest of a young family, who were taught to 
leceive my brother with respect as a man of 
gemes and their father's friend, 

" The Briss of Ayr is inscribed to John 
Ballsutine, Esq. banker in Ayr ; one of those 
gentlemen to whom my brother was introduced 
by Mr Aiken. He interested himself very 
w a: mly in my .. i constantly 

showed the greatest friendship o:.d attachment 
to him. When the Kilmarnock edition was all 
sold off, and a considerable demand pointed out 
the propriety of publishing a second edition, 
Mr Wilson, who had printed the first, was 
asked if he wcuid priM the second, and take his 
chance of being paid from the f rst sale. This 
he declined ; and when this came to Mr Bai- 
lantine's knowledge, he generously offered to 

, accommodate Robert with what money he might 

i need for that purpose ; but advised him lo go to 

for publishing. 

When he did go to Edii. burgh, his friends 

advised him to publish f£ain by -u:?:. 

so that he dir 1 not need to accept this offer. 

.-■ : in Kilmarnock, 

was a subs -: ve copies of the 

_-k edition. This may perhaps appear 

; but if the ccm- 

j pars live obscurity of the poet, at this period. 

1 be taken into consideration, it appears to me r 
greater effort of generosity, thin many thing.' 
which appear more brilliant in my brother': 
future history. 

I '• Mr Robert Muir, merchant in Kilmarr.ock 

riends Robert's poetry had 

procured him, and one who was dear to hi 

heart. This gentleman had no very erea 

. or long line of dignified aneesti 

: Captain Matthew Bender. 



BLKNS — LiF 



sa 



because, 03 has already been mentioned, this 
part of his history is connected with some views 
of the condition and manners of the humblest 
ranks of society, hitherto little observed, and 
which will perhaps be found neither useless 



About the time of leaving his native country, 
his correspondence commences ; and in the 
series of letters now given to the world, the 
chief incidents of the remaining part of bis life 
will be found. The authentic, though melan- 
choly record, wiil supersede in future the ue- 
ces-ity of any extended narrative. 

Burns set out for Edinburgh in the month 
of November, 1786, and arrived on the second 
day afterwards, having performed his journey 
on foot. He was furnished with a letter of 
introduction to Dr Blacklock, from the gentle- 
man to whom the Doctor had addressed the 
letter which is represented by our bard as the 
immediate cause of his visiting the Scottish 
metropolis. He was acquainted with Mr 
Stewart, professor of Moral Philosophy in the 
University, and had been entertained by that 
gentleman at Catrine, his estate in Ay 
He had been intl 



,• Mr Alexander Dal- 



ho had expressed 
his poetical talents. 
who could introduce 



zel t. 

his high approbation o 

He had friends therefor 

him into the circles of 1 

fashion, and his owu 

exceeding every expeci 

been formed of them, he 

of general curiosity and adi 

following circumstance contributed to this ii 

considerable degree At the time when Bui 

arrived in Edinburgh, the periodical pap< 



and appearance 

that could have 

became an object 

'i ho 



son might be said of him with great propriety, 
that he held the -patent of his honours immediately 
from AlmUkty God. Nature had indeed mark- 
ed him a gentleman in the most legible charac- 
ters. He died while yet a young man, soon 
after the publication of ray brother's first 
Edinburgh edition. Sir William Cunningham, 
of Robertland, paid a very flattering attention, 
and showed a good deal of friendship for the 
poet. Before his going to Edinburgh, as well 
as after, Robert seemed peculiarly pleased with 
Professor Stewart's friendship and conversa- 

"But of all the friendships which Robert 
acquired in Ayrshire or eisewhere, none seemed 
more agreeable to h;m than that of Mrs Dunlop 
of Dunlop, nor any which has been more uni. 
formly and constantly exerted in behalf of him 
and of his family ; of which, were it proper, I 
zould give many instances. Robert was on the 
point of setting out for Edinburgh before Mrs 
Dunlop had heard of him. About the time of 
my brother's publishing in Kilmarnock, she 
had been afflicted with a long and severe illness, 
which had reduced her mind to the most dis- 
tressing state of depression. In this situation, 
a copy of the printed poems was laid on her 
table by a friend, and happening to open on 
The Cotter's Saturday Kighi, she read it over 
with the greatest pleasure and surprise : the 
poet's description of the simple cottagers, oper- 
ating on her mind like the charm of a powerful 
exorcist, expelling the demon ennui and restor- 
ing her to her wonted inward harmony and 
•atiafaction. — Mrs Dunlop wea^ off a person 



entitled The Lounger, was publishing, every 
Saturday producing a successive uumber. ilia 
poems had attracted the notice of the gentle- 
men ertgaged in that undertaking, and the 
ninety-seventh number of those unequal, 
though frequently beautiful essays, is devoted 
to An Atxvunl of Robert Buns, the Ayrshire- 
:,;, Willi extracts from his Poems, 
written by the elegant pen of Mr Mackenzie. * 
The Lounger had an extensive circulation 

Scotland only, but in various parts of England, 

immediately introduced. 1he paper of Mr 

Mackenzie "was calculated to introduce him 
advantageously, 'ihe extracts are well select- 
; ed ; the criticisms and reflections are judicious 
i as well as generous ; and in the style and 
: sentiments there is that happy delicacy, by 
which the wrum-s of the au.nor are so eun- 
Inentlj distinguished. The extracts from 
Bums' Poems in the ninety-seventh number cf 
j Tlie Lounger, were copied into the London, an 
! well as into many of the provincial papers, aud 
the fame of cur bard spread throughout the 
island. Of the manners, character, and con- 
duct of Burns at this period, the following ac- 
count has been given by Mr Stewart, in a letter 
to the editor, which he is particularly happy to 
have obtained permission to insert iu these 
memoirs. 

Professor Dugald S'.ewarl of Edinburgh to Dr 
James Currie of Liverpool. 



express to Mossgie!, distant fifteen or sixteen 
miles, with a very obliging letter to my brother, 
desiring him to send her half a dozen copies of 
his poems, if he had theiuto spare, and begging 
he would do her the pleasure of calling at 
Dunlop house as scon as convenient. This 
was the beginning of a correspondence which 
ended only With the poet's life. The last usa 
he made of his pen was writing a short letter 
to this lady a few days before his death. 

" Col. Fullarton, who afterwards paid a 
very particular attention to the poet, was not 
in the country at the time of his first commenc- 
ing author. At this distance of time, and in 
the hurry of a wet day, suatched from labori- 
ous occupations, I may have forgot some per- 
sons who ought to have been mentioned on this 
occasion, for which, if it come to my know- 
ledge, I shall be heartily sorry. ' ' 

The friendship of Mrs Dunlop was of parti- 
cular value to Burns. This lady, daughter aud 
sole heiress to Sir Thomas Wallace of Craigie, 
and lineal descendant of the illustrious Wallace, 
the first of Scottish warriors, possesses the quali- 
ties of mind suite J to her high lineage. Pre- 
serving, in the decline of life, the generous af- 
fections of youth ; her admiration of the poet 
was soon accompanied by a sincere friendship 
for the man ; which pursued him in alter life 
through good and evil report ; in poverty, iu 
sickness, and in sorrow ; and which is contin- 
ued to his infant family, uow deprived of their 
parent. 

* This paper has been attributed, but im- 
properly, to Lord Craig, one of the ScoUbUl 



3i 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



niy hofise in Ayrshire, together with our com- 
mon friend Mr John Mackenzie, surgeon in 
Mauchline, to whom I am indebted for the 
pleasure of his acquaintance. I am enabled to 
mention the date particularly, by some verses 
which Burns wrote after he returned home, and 

in which the day of our meeting is recorded 

My excellent and much lamented friend, the 
late Basil, Lord Daer, happened to arrive at 
Catrine the same day, and by the kindness and 
frankness of his manners, left an impression on 
the mind of the poet, which never was effaced. 
The verses I allude to are among the most 
imperfect of his pieces ; but a few stanzas may 
perhaps be an object of curiosity to you, both 
oa account of the character to which they re- 
late, and of the light which they throw on the 
situation and feelings of the writer, before his 
name was known to the public* 



Judges, author of the very interesting account 
of Michael Bruce, in the 36th number of the 
Mimtr. 

* This poem is as follows : 

This wot ye all whom it concerns, 
I, Rhymer Robin, alias Barns, 

October twenty-third, 
A ne'er-to-be-forgotteu day, 
Sae far I sprachled up the brae, 

I dinner" d wi' a Lord. 

I've been at drunken icritsrs' feasts, 
Nay, been bitch-fou 'inang scdlv priests, 

\\V reverei.ee be it spoke'n ; 
I've even join'd the honour \i jorum, 
When mighty Squireships of the quorum, 

Their hydra drouth did sloken. 

But wi' a Lord — stand out mv shin, 
A Lord— a Peer— an Earl's son, 

L"p higher yet my bonnet ; 
An' sic a Lord — lang Scotch e,li twa, 
Our peerage he o'erlcoks them a', 

As I look o'er my sonnet. 

But O for Hogarth's magic power ! 
To show Sir Hardy's wiliyart glowr, 

And how he stared and stammer 'd, 
"When goaTan, as if led wi' branks, 

lUmpan on his ploughman shanks, 



Ba 



a tne parlour "lammer'd. 



I sidling shelter 'd in a nook, 
An' at his Lordship steal't a look, 

Like some portentous omen ; 
Except good sense and social glee, 
An' (what surprised me) modesty, 

I marked nought uncommon. 

I watch'd the symptoms o' the Great, 
The gentle pride, the lordly state, 

The fient a pride, nae pride had he, 
Nor sauce, nor state that I could see, 
Mair than an honest ploughman. 

Then from his Lordship I shall learn, 
Henceforth to meet witu unconcern, 
One rank as well's .another ; 



•* I cannot positively say, at this disUmce of 
time, whether, at the period of our first ac- 
quaintance, the Kilmarnock edition of his 
poems had been just published, or was yet in 
the press. I susrect that the latter was the 
case, as I have stiil in my possession copies, in 
his own hand-writing, of some of his favourite 
performances; particularly of his verses "on 
turning up a Mouse with his plough;" — "on 
the Mountain Daisy; "and " the Lament." 
On my return to Edinburgh, I showed the 
voiurue, and mentioned what I knew of the 
author's history, to several of my friends, and, 
among others, to Mr Henry Mackenzie, who 
first recommended him to public notice in the 
97th number of The Lounger. 

" At this time Burns's prospects in life were 
so extremely gloomy, that he had seriously 
formed a plan of going out to Jamaica in a 
very humble situation, not, however, without 
lamenting, that his want of patronage should 
force him to think of a project so repugnant to 
his feelings, when his ambition aimed at no 
higher an object than the station of an excise- 
man or ganger in his own countn . 

" Dis manners were then, as they continued 
ever afterwards, simple, manly, and indepen- 
dent ; strongly expressive of conscious genius 
and worth ; but without any thing that indicat- 
ed forwardness, arrogance, or vanity. He took 
his share in conversation, but not mere than 
belonged to him ; and listened with apparent 
attention and deference, on subjects where his 
want of education deprived him of the means 
of information. If there had been a little mure 
of gentleness and accommodation in his temper, 
.he would, I think, have been still more inter- 
esting ; but he had been accustomed to give 
law in the circle of his ordinary acquaintance ; 
and his dread of any thing approaching to 
meanness or servility, rendered his manner 
somewhat decided andhard. Nothing, perhaps, 
was more remarkable among his various at- 
tainments, than the fluency, and precision, and 
originality of his language, when he spoke in 
company ; more particularly as he aimed at 
purity in his turn of expression, and avoided 
more successfully than most Scotchmen, the 
peculiarities; of Scottish phraseologv. 

" He came to Edinburgh ear'.y in the winter 
following, and remained tUere for several 
months. By whose advice he took this step, I 
am unable to say. Perhaps it was suggested 
only by his own curiosity to see a little more 
of the world ; but, I confess, I dreaded the 
consequeices from the first, and always wished 
that his pursuits and habits should continue the 
same as in the former part of life ; with the 
addition of, what I considered as then com- 
pletely within his reach, a good farm on moder . 
ate te^ms, in a part of the country agreeable to 
his taste. 

' The attentions he received during his stay 



Nae honest iccrihy man need care, 

To meet with noble youthful Daer, 

For he but meets a brother. 



These lines will be read with i 
interest by all who remember the unaffected 
simplicity" of appearance, ihe sweetness of coun- 
tenance and manners, and the unsuspecting 
benevolence of heart, cf Basil, Lord Daer. 



BURN 3. -LIFE. 



85 



in town from all ranks anil descriptions of 
persons, were such as would have turned any 
head but his own. I cannot say that I could 
perceive any unfavourable effect ■which they 
left on his mind. He retained the same sim- 
plicity of manners and appearance which had 
struck me so forcibly when I first saw him in 
the country ; nor did he seem to feel any addi- 
tional self-importance from the number and 
rank of his new acquaintance. His dress was 
perfectly suited to his station, plain and unpre- 
tending, w ith a sufficient attention to neatness. 
If I recollect right he always wore boots ; and, 
when on n-ore than usual ceremony, buck-skin 
breeches. 

" The variety of his engagements, -while in 
Edinburgh, prevented me from seeing him so 
often as I could have wished. In the course of 
the spring he called on me once or twice, at my 
request, early in the morning, and walked with 
me to Braid-Hills, in the neighbourhood of the 
town, when he charmed me still more by his 
private conversation, than he had ever done in 
company. He was passionately fond of the 
beauties of nature ; and I recollect once he 
told me, when I was admiring a distant pros- 
pect in one of our morning walks, that the 
sight of so many smoking cottages gave a 
pleasure to his mind, which none could under- 
stand who had not witnessed, like himself, the 
happiness and the worth which they contained. 

• ■ In his political principles he was then a 
Jacobite; which was perhaps owing partly to 
this, that his father was originally from the 
estate of Lord Mareschall. Indeed he did not 
appear to have thought much on such subjects, 
nor very consistently. He had a very strong 
sense of religion, and expressed deep regret at 
the levity with which he had heard it treated 
occasionally in some convivial meetings which 
he frequented. I speak of him as he was in 
the winter of 17S6-7; for afterwards we met 
but seldom, and our conversations turned 
chiefly on his literary projects, or his private 
affairs. 

" 1 do not recollect whether it appears or 
not from any of your letters to me, that vou 
had ever seeu Burns.* If you have, it is 
superfluous for me to add, that the idea which 
his conversation conveyed of the powers of his 
mind, exceeded, if possible, that which is sng- 

fested by his writings. Among the poets whom 
have happened to know, 1 have been struck, 
in more than one instance, with the unaccount 
able disparity between their general talents 
and the occasional inspirations of their more 
favoured moments. But all the faculties of 
Burns 's mind were, as far as I could judge 
equally vigorous; and. tiis predilection fc 
poetry was rather the result of his own enthi 
siastic and impassioned temper, than of 
genius exclusively adapted to that species of 
composition. From his conversation I should 
have pronounced him to be fitted to excel in 
whatever walk of ambition he had chosen to 
exert his abilities. 

1 * Among the subjects on which he was ac 
customed to dwell, the characters of the indi 
viduals with whom he happened to meet, wa 
plainly a favourite one. The remarks he made 



* The editor has seen and conversed with 



on them, were always shrewd and pointed, 
though frequently inclining too much to sar- 
casm. His praise of those he loved was 
sometimes indiscriminate and extravagant ; but 
this, I suspect, proceeded rather from the 
caprice and humour of the moment, than from 
the effects of attachment in blinding his judg- 
ment. His wit was ready, and always im- 
pressed with the marks of a vigorous under- 
standing ; but, to my taste, not often pleasing 
or happy. His attempts at epigram, in his 
printed works, are the enly performances, 
perhaps, that he has produced, totally unwor- 
thy of his genius. 

" In summer, 1787, I passed some weeks 
in Ayrshire, and saw Burns occasionally. I 
think that he mode a pretty long excursion 
that season to the Highlands, and that he also 
visited what Beat'ie calls the Arcadian ground 
of Scotland, upon the banks of the Teviot and 
the Tweed. 

" I should have mentioned before, that not- 
withstanding Tarious reports 1 heard during 
the preceding winter, of Burns 's predilection 
for convivial and not very select society, i 
should have concluded in favour of his habits 
of sobriety, from all of him that ever fell under 
my own observation. He told me indeed 
himself, that the weakness of his stomach was 
such as to deprive him entirely of any merit in 
his temperance. 1 was, however, somewhat 
alarmed about the effect of his now compara- 
tively sedentary and luxurious life, when he 
confessed to me, the first night he spent in my 
house, after his winter's campaign in town, that 
he had been much disturbed when in bed, by 
a palpitation at his heart, which, he said, was 
a_complaiut to which he had of late become 

«• In the course of the same season, I was 
led by curiosity to attend for an hour or two a 
Masonic lodge in Mauchline, where Burns 
presided. He had occasion to make short 
unpremeditated compliments to different indi- 
viduals from whom he had no reason to expect 
a visit, and every thing he said was happily 
conceived, and forcibly as well as fluently ex- 
pressed. If I am not mistaken, he told BM, 
that in that village, before going to Edinburgh, 
he had belonged to a small club of such of the 
inhabitants as had a taste for books, when 
they used to converse and debate on any inter- 
esting questions that occurred to them in the 
course of their reading. His manner of speak- 
ing in public had evidently the marks of some 
practice in extempore elocution. 

" I must not omit to mention, what I have 
always considered as characteristical in a high 
degree of true genius, the extreme facility and 
good nature of his taste, in judging of the 
compositions of others, when there was any 
real ground for praise. I repeated to him 
many passages of English poetry with which 
he was unacquainted, and have more than once 
witnessed the tears of admiration and rapture 
with which he heard them. The collection of 
songs by Dr Aiken, which I first put into his 
hands, he read with unmixed delight, notwith- 
standing his former efforts in that very difficult 
species of writing ; and I have little doubt that 
it had some effect in polishing his subsequent 
compositions. 



DIAMOND CAELXET LIBRARY. 



a passage or two in Franklin's Works, which j 
I thought very happily executed, upon the 
model of Addison ; but he did not appear to | 
relish, or to perceive the beauty wluch they 
derived from their exquisite simplicity, aiid I 
spoke of them with indiiierenee, when com- j 
pared with the point, and antithesis, and 
quaintness of Junius* The influence of this ! 
taste is very perceptible in his own prose com- ! 
positions, although their gTeat and various ex- I 
ceilencies render some w ot them scarcely less 
objects of wonder than his poetical perfor- 
mances. The late Dr Robertson used to say, 
that, considering- his education, the former 
seemed to him the more extraordinary of the 

"His memory was uncommonly retentive, 
at least for poetry, of which he recited to me 
frequently long compositions with the most 
minute accuracy. They were chiefly ballads, 
and other pieces in our Scottish dialect ; great 
part of them (he told me) he had learned in his 
childhood, from his mother, who delighted in 
such recitations, and whose poetical taste, rude 
as it probably was, gave, it is presumable, the 
first direction of ber son's genius. 

" Of the more polished verses which acci- 
dentally fell into his hands in his early years, 
he mentioned paticularly the recommendatory 
poeuis, by different authors, prefixed to Her- 
rcy's Hediiaticns ; a book which has always 
had a very wide circulation among such of the 
country people of Scotland, as atfect to unite 
some degree of taste with their religious studies. 
And these poems (aithoush they are certainly 
below mediocrity) he continued to read with a 
degree of rapture beyond expression. He took 
notice of this fact himself, as a proof how much 
the taste is liable to be influenced by accidental 

"His father appeared to me, from the ac- 
count he gave of him, to have been a respect- 
able and worthy character, possessed of a mind 
superior to what might have been expected 
from his station in life. He ascribed much 
of his own principles and feelings to the early 
impressions he had received from his instruc- 
tions and example. I recollect that he once 
applied to him (and he added, that the passage 
vas a literal statement of fact), the two last 
lines of the following passage in the Minstrel, 
the whole of which he repeated with great 
enthusiasm ; 

'* Shall I be left forgotten hi the dust, 

When fate relenting, lets the flow er revive ; 
Shall nature's voice, to man alone unjust, 
Bid him, though doom 'd to perish, hope to 
live?" 
Is it for this fair Virtue oft must strive 

With disappointment, penury, and pain ? 
No! Heaven's immortal spring shall yet 

And man's majestic beauty bloom again, 
Bright through th' eternal year of iove"s trium- 
phant reign. 



"With respect to Burns 's early education, 
I cannot say any thing with certainty. He 
always spoke with respect and gratitude of the 
school-master who had taught him to read 



English ; and who, finding in his scholar a 
more than ordinary ardour for knowledge, had 
been at pains to instruct him in the grammati- 
cal principles of the language. He began the 
study of Latin, but dropped it before he had 
finished the verbs. I have sometimes heard 
him quote a few Latin words, such as omnia 
vnicit amor, &c but they seemed to be such as 
he had caught from conversation, and which 
he repeated by rote. I think he had a project 
after he came to Edinburgh, of prosecuting the 
study under his intimate friend, the late Mr 
Xicol, one of the masters of the grammar- 
school here ; but I do not know if he ever pro- 
ceeded so far as to make the attempt. 

"He certainly possessed a smattering of 
French ; and, if he had an affectation in any 
thing, it was in introducing occasionally a word 
or a phrase from that language. It is possible 
that his knowledge in this respect might be 
more extensive than I suppose it to be ; but 
this you can learn from his more intimate ac- 
quaintance. It would be worth while to in- 
quire, whether he was able to read the French 
authors with such facility as to receive from 
'.hem any improvement to his taste. For my 
own Dart, I doubt it much— nor would I bo- 
lieve it, but on very strong and pointed evi- 

" If my memory does not fail me, he was 
well instructed iu arithmetic, and knew some- 
thing of practical geometry, particularly of 

surveying Ail his other attainments were 

eutire'lv his own. 

" The last time I saw him was during the 
winter, ] 7SS-Sy ;* when he passed an evening 
with me at Drumsheugh, in the neighbour- 
hood of Edinburgh, where I was then living. 
My friend Mr Alison was the only other in 
company. I never saw him more agreeable or 
interesting. A present which Mr Alison sent 
him afterwards of his Essays on Taste, drew 
from Burns a letter of acknowledgment, which. 
I remember to have read with some degree of 
surprise at the distinct conception he appeared 
from it to have formed, of the several princi- 
ples of the doctriue of association. When I 
saw Mr Alison in Shropshire last autumn, I 
forgot to inquire if the letter be still in existence. 
If it is, you may easily procure it, by means of 
our friend Mr Houlbrooke. ' ' 

The scene that opened on our bard in Edin- 
bursh was altogether new, and in a variety of 
other respects highly interesting, especially to 
one of his" disposition of mind. To use an ex- 
pression of his own, he found himself "sud- 
denly translated from the veriest shades of life, " 
into the presence, and, indeed, into the society 
of a number of persons, previously known to 
him by report as of the highest distinction in his 
country, and whose characters it was natural 
fcr him to examine with no common curiosity. 

From the men of letters, in general, his re- 
ception was particularly flattering. The late 
Dr Robertson, Dr Blair, Dr Gregory, Mr 
Stewart, Mr Mackenzie, and Mr Fraser Tytler, 



* Or rather 1TS9-90. I cannot speak with 
confidence with respect to the particular year. 
Some of my other dates may possibly require 
correction, as I keep no journal of such oc- 
currences. 



BURNS. —LIFE. 



37 



may be mentioned in the list of those who per- i 
ceived his uncommon talents, •who acknow- 
ledged more especially his power in conversa- 
tion, and who interested themselves in the 
cultivation of his genius. In Edinburgh, 
literary and fashionable society are a good 
deal mixed. Our bard was an acceptable 
guest in the gayest and most elevated circles, 
and frequently received from female beauty and 
elegance, those attentions above all others most 
grateful to him. At the table of Lord Mon- 
boddo he was a frequent guest ; and while he 
enjoyed the society, and partook of the hospi- 
talities of the venerable Judge, he experienced 
the kindness and condescension of h s lovely 
and accomplished daughter. The singular 
heauty of this young lady was illumined by that 
happy expression of countenance which results 
from the union of cultivated taste and superior 
understanding, with the finest affections of the 
wind. The influence of such attractions was 
not unfelt by our poet. « There has not been 
any thing like Miss Burnet, " said he in a letter 
to a friend, "in all the combinations of beauty, 
grace, and goodness, the Creator has formed, 
since Milton 's Eve on the first day of her ex- 
istence. " In his Address to Edinburgh, she 
is celebrated in a strain of still greater elevation: 

"Fair Burnet strikes th' adoring eye, 
' Heaven's beauties on my fancy shine ; 

1 see the Sire of Love on high, 
^ And own his works indeed divine! " 

This lovely woman died a few years after- 
wards in the flower of her youth. Our bard 
expressed his sensibility on that occasion, in 
verses addressed to her memory. 

Among the men of rnnk and fashion, Burns 
was part cularly distinguished by .lames, Earl 
of Glencairn. On the motion of this noble- 
man, the Caledonian Hunt, (an association of 
the principal of the nobility and gentry of Scot- 
land, ) extended their patronage to our bard, and 
admitted him to their gay orgies. He repaid 
their notice by a dedication of the enlarged and 
improved edition of his poems, in which he has 
celebrated their patriotism and independence in 
very animated terms. 

' ' I congratulate my country that the blood of 
her ancient heroes runs uncontaminated ; and 
that, from your courage, knowledge, and public 
spirit, she may expect protection, wealth, and 
liberty May corrup- 
tion shrink at your kindling indignant glance; 
and may tyranny in the ruler, and licentious- 
ness in the people, equally find in you an inexo- 
rable foe ! '' 

It is to be presumed that these generous sen- 
timents, uttered at an era singularly propitious 
to independence of character and conduct, were 
favourably received by the persons to whom 
tbey were addressed, and that they were echoed 
from every bosom, as well as from that of the 
Earl of Glencairn. This accomplished noble- 
man, a scholar, a man of taste and sensibility, 
died soon afterwards. Had he lived, and had 
his power equalled his wishes, Scotland might 
ttill have exulted in the genius, instead of 1; 
menting the early fate of her favourite bard. 

A taste for letters is not always conjoined 
with habits of temperance and regularity ; 
Edinburgh, at the period of which we sp 
contained perhaps an uncommon proportion of 



meD of considerable talents, devoted to social 
excesses, in which their talents were wasted 
and debased. 

Burns entered into several parties of this de- 
scription, with the usual vehemence of his char- 
. His generous affections, his ardent elo- 
ce, his brilliant and daring imagination, 
fitted him to be the idol of such associations ; 
and accustoming himself to conversation of un- 
ited range, and to festive indulgences that 
scorned restraint, he gradually lost some por- 
tion of his relish for the more pure, but less 
poignant pleasures, to be found in the circles 
of taste, elegance, and literature. The sudden 
alteration in his habits of life operated on him 
physically as well as morally. The humble fare 
of an Ayrshire peasant he had exchanged for 
the luxuries of the Scottish metropolis, and 
the effects of this change on his ardent consti- 
tution could not be inconsiderable. But what- 
ever influence might be produced on his con- 
duct, his excellent understanding suffered no 
correspondent debasement. He estimated his 
friends and associates of every description at 
their proper value, and appreciated his own 
conduct with a precision that might give scope 
to much curious and melancholy reflection. He 
saw his danger, and at times formed resolutions 
to guard against it ; but be had embarked on 
the tide of dissipation, and was borne along its 
stream. 

Of the state of his mind at this time, an au- 
thentic, though imperfect document remains, 
in a book which he procured in the spring of 
1787, for the purpose, as he himself informs 
us, of recording in it whatever seemed worthy 
of observation. The following extracts may 

Edinburgh, April 9, 1787. 
"As I have seen a good deal of human life 
in Edinburgh, a great many characters which 
are new to one bred up in the shades of life as 
I have been, I am determined to take down 
my remarks on the spot. Gray observes in a 
letter to Mr Palgrave, that, ' half a word f.xed 
upon, or near the spot, is worth a cart-load ot 
recollection. ' I don't know how it is with the 
world in general, but with me, making my re- 
marks is by no means a solitary pleasure. I 
want some one to laugh with me, some one to 
be grave with me, some one to please me, and 
help my discrimination, with his or her own 
remark, and at times, no doubt, to admire my 
acuteness and penetration. The world are so 
busied with selfish pursuits, ambition, vanity, 
interest, or pleasure, that very few think it 
worth their while to make any observation on 
what passes around them, except where that 
observation is a sucker, or branch of the darling 
plant they are rearing in their fancy. JVor am 
I sure, notwithstanding all the sentimental 
flights of novel-writers, and the sage philosophy 
of moralists, whether we are capable of so 
intimate aud cordial a coalition of friendship, 
as that one man may pour out Iris bosom, his 
every thought and floating fancy, his very in- 
most soul, with unreserved confidence to an- 
other, without hazard of losing part of that re- 
spect which man deserves from man ; or 
from the unavoidable imperfections attending 
human nature, of one day repenting his confi- 

"For these reasons 1 am determined tc mak« 



33 



DIAMOND CABINET LI3RARY. 



these pages my confidant. I will sketch every j 
character that any way strikes me, to the best ' 
of my power, with unshrinking justice. I will I 
insert anecdotes, and take down remarks, in the ' 
old law phrase, without feud or favour. — Where j 
I hit on any thing clever, my own applause i 
will, in some measure, feast ray vanity; and 
begging Patroclus' and Achates pardon, I I 
think a lock and key a security, at least equal j 
to the bosom of any friend whatever. 

*' My own private story likewise, my love- 
adventures, my rauibUs ; the frowns and s-miles 
of fortune on my hardship ; my poems and 
fragments, that mast never see the light, shall ; 
be occasionally inserted. — In short, never did I 
four shilliugs purchase so much friendship si: 



confidence 

set up to sale. 

• ' To these 

ideas of huma 



t first to market, or honesty was 

;emingly invidious, but too just 
friendship, I would cheerfully 
lptiou — the connexion between 
: different sexes, when their 
ited and absorbed by ths tie of 



, ere from the lips 
mutual from the 



When thought meets thougl 

it part, 
And each warm wish spring 

heart. 



There, confidence — confidence that exalts them ■ 
the more in one another's opinion, that endears i 
them the more to each, other's hearts, unre- 
servedly ' reigns and revels. ' But this is not | 
my lot ; and, in my situation, if I am wise, ! 
(which by the bye 1 have no great chance of 



tops. ' — Oh, the pity ! 



" There are few of the sore evils under the 
sua give me more uneasiness and chagrin than 
the comparison how a man of genius, nay, of 
avowed worth, is received every where, with 
the reception which a mere ordinary character, 
decorated with the trappings and futile disli us- 
abilities, his breast glowing with honest pride, 
conscious that man are born equal, still giving 
honour- to whom /wnour is due ; he meets, at a ' 
great man's table, a Squire something, or a 
Sii somebody ; he knows the noble landlord, 
at heart, gives the bard, or whatever lie is, a 
share of his good wishes, beyond, perhaps, a.iv 
one at table; yet how will it mortify him to ; 
see a fellow, "who3e abilities would scarcely 
have made an eightpenny tailor, and whose j 
heart is not worth three farthings, meet with 
attention and notice, that are withheld from 
the son of genius and poverty 'i 

" The noble G has wounded me to 

the soul h->re, because I dearly esteem, respect, 
and love him. He showed so much attention 
—engrossing attention, one day, to the only | 
blockhead at table (the whole company con- 
sisted of his lordship, dunderpate, and myself), 
that I was within half a point of throwing 
down my gage of contemptuous defiance, but i 
he shook my hand, and looked so benevolently 
good at parting. God bless him ! though £ 
should never see him more, I shall love him 
until my dying day ! I am pleased to think I 



am so capable of Ihe throes of gratitude, as I 
am miserably deficient in some other virtues. 

» With I am more at my ease. I 

never respect him with humble veneration ; 
but when he kindly interests himself in ray 
welfare, or still more when he descends from 
his pinnacle, and meets me on equal ground 
in conversation, my heart overflows with what 
is called liking. When he neglects me for the 
mere carcass of greatness, or when his eye 
measures the difference of our points of eleva- 
tion, I say to myself, with scarcely any emo- 
tion, what do I care for him, or his pomp 
either?" 

The intentions of the poet in procuring this 
book, so fully described by himself, were very 
imperfectly executed. lie has inserted in it 
few or no incidents, but several observations 
and reflections, of which the greater part tint 
are proper for the public eye, will be found in- 
terwoven in the volume of his letters. The 
most curious particulars in the book are the 
delineations of the characters he met with. 
These are not numerous ; but they are chiefly 
of persons of distinction in the republic of 
letters, and nothing but the delicacy and re- 
spect due to living characters prevents us from 
committing them to the press. Though it 
appears that in his conversation he was some- 
times disposed to sarcastic remarks on the men 
with whom he lived, nothing of this kind is 
discoverable in these more deliberate efforts of 
his understanding, which, while they exhibit 
great clearness o' discrimination, manifest also 
the wish, as well as the power, to bestow high 
and generous praise. 

By the new edition of his poems, Burns ac- 
quired a sum of money that enabled him not 
only to partake of the pleasures of Edinburgh, 
but to gratify a desire he had long entertained, 
of visiting those parts of his native country, 
most attractive by their beauty or their gran- 
deur ; a desire which the return of summer na- 
turally revived. The scenery on the banks of 
the Tweed, and of its tributary streams, strongly 
interested his fancv ; and, accordingly, he left 
Edinburgh on the 6th of May, 17S7, on a tour 
through a country so much celebrated in tho 
rural songs of Scotland. He travelled on 
horseback, and was accompanied, during some 
part of his journey, by Mr Ainslie, now writer 
to the signet, a gentleman who enjoyed much 
of his friendship and of his confidence. Of 
this tour a journal remains, which, however, 
contains only occasional remarks on the seen- 
ery, and which is chiefly occupied with an ac- 
count of the author's different stages, and 
with his observations on the various characters 
to whom he was introduced. In the course of 
this rour he visited Mr Ainslie of Berrywell, 
the father of his companion ; Mr Brydone, the 
celebrated traveller, to whom he carried a let- 
ter or introduction from Mr Mackeuzie ; the 
Rev Dr Soraerviile of Jedburgh, the historian ; 
Mr and Mrs Scott of Wauchope ; Dr Elliot, 
phvsician, retired to a romantic spot ou the 
banks of the Roole ; Sir Alexander Don ; Sir 
James Hall of Dunglass ; and a great variety 
of other respectable "characters. Every where 
the fame of the poet had spread before him, 
and every where he received the most hospi- 
table aud flattering attentions. At Jedburgh 
he continued several days, and was honoured 



BURNS — LIFE. 



.39 



church at Duns 



by the magistrates with the freedom of their 
borough. The following may serve as a spe- 
cimen of this tour, which the .'perpetual re- 
ference to living characters prevents our giving 
at large. 

" Saturday, May G. Left Edinburgh— Lam- 
mermuir hills, miserably dreary in general, 
but at times very picturesque. 

" Lanson-edge, a glorious view of the Merse. 
Beach Berrywell. . . . The family- 
meeting with my compagnon de voyage, very 
charming : particularly the sister. 

• ' Sunday. Went ' 
Heard Dr Bowmaker. 

"Monday. Coldstream — glorious river 
Tweed — clear and majestic— fine bridge— dine 
at Coldstream with MrAinslie and Mr Foreman. 
Beat Mr Foreman in a dispute about Voltaire. 
Drink tea at Lennel- House with Mr and Mrs 
Brydone. . . . Reception extremely flatter- 
ing. Sleep at Coldstream. 

" Tuesday. Breakfast at Kelso— charming 
situation of the town— fine bridge over the 
Tweed. Enchanting views and prospects on 
both sides of the river, especially on the Scotch 
side. . . . Visit Roxburgh Palace— fine 
situation of it. Ruins of Roxburgh Castle — 
a holly-bush growing where James the Second 
was accidentally killed by the bursting of a 
cannon. A small old religious ruin and a fine 
old garden planted by the religious, rooted out 
and destroyed by a Hottentot, a maitre a" hotel 
of the Duke's!— Climate and soil of Berwick- 
shire, and even Roxburghshire, superior to Ayr- 
shire— -bad roads— turnip and sheep husbandry 
their great improvements. . . . Low mar- 
kets, consequently low lands — magnificence of 
farmers and farm -houses. Come up the Tevi 
ot, and up the Jed to Jedburgh, to lie, and so 
wish myself good night. 

».' Wednesday. Breakfast with Mr Fair. 
. . Charming romantic situation of Jed- 
burgh, with gardens and orchards, inter- 
mingled among the houses, and the ruins of a 
once magnificent cathedral. All the towns 
here have the appearance of old rude grandeur, 
but extremely idle.-- Jed, a fine romantic little 
river. Dined with Capt. Rutherford, . . . 
return to Jedburgh. Walked up the Jed with 
some ladies to be shown Love-lane, and Black- 
burn, two fairy scenes. Introduced to Mr 
Poets, writer, and to Mr Somerville, the 
clergyman of the parish, a man, and a gentle- 
man, but sadly addicted to punning. _ . a 



"Jedburgh, Saturday. Was presented by 
the magistrates with the freedom of the town. 

"Took farewell of Jedburgh, with ^some 
melancholy sensations. 

"Monday, May 11, Kelso. Dine with thi 
farmer's club— all gentlemen talking of high 
matters — each of them keeps a hunter frc 
L30 to L50 value, and attends the fox-huutii 
club in the country. Go out with Mr Ker, o 
oftheciub, and a friend of Mr Ainslie's, 
sleep. In his mind and manners, Mr Ker 
astonishingly like my dear old friend Robert 
Muir — every thing in his house elegant. He 
otters to accompany me in my English tour. 

* 4 Tuesday. Diiie with Sir Alexander Don 
a very wet day. . . . Sleep at Mr Ker 'i 
Rg-iiu, and set out next day for Melrose— visit 



Dryburgh a fine old ruined abbey, by the way. 
Cross the Leader, and come up the" Tweed to 
Melrose. Dine there, and visit that far-famed 
glorious ruin — Come to Selkirk up the banks 
of Ettrick. The whole country hereabouts, 
both on Tweed and Ettrick, remarkably 
stony. ' * , « 

Having spent three weeks in exploring this 
interesting scenery, Burns crossed over into 
Northumberland. Mr Ker and Mr Hood, 
gentlemen with whom he had become ac- 
inted in the course of his tour, accompanied 
He visited Alnwick Castle ; the princely 
of the Duke of Northumberland ; the 
hermitage and old castle of Warksworth ; 
Morpeth, and Newcastle.— In this town he 
spent two days, and then proceeded to the 
south-west by Hexham and Wardrue, to Car- 
lisle. — After spending a few days at Carlisle 
with his friend Mr Mitchell, he returned into 
Scotland, and at Annan his journal terminates 
abruptly. 

Of the various persons with whom he be- 
came acquainted in the course of th s journey, 
he has, in general, given some account ; and 
almost always a favourable one. That on the 
banks of the Tweed and of the Teviot, our 
bard should find nymphs that were beautiful, 
is what might be confidently presumed. Two 
of these are particularly described in his journal. 
But it does not appear that the scenery, or its 
inhabitants, produced any effort of his muse, 
as it was to have been wished and expected. 
From Annan, Burns proceeded to D smfries, 
and thence, through Sanquhar, to Mossgiel, 
near Mauchline, in Ayrshire, where he arrived 
about the 8th of June, 1787, after an absence 
of six busy and eventful months. It will be 
easily conceived with what pleasure and pride 
he was received by his mother, his brothers, 
and sisters. He had left them poor, and com- 
paratively friendless ; he returned to them high 
in public estimation, and easy in his circum- 
stances. He returned to them unchanged in 
his ardent affections, and ready to share with 
them to the uttermost farthing, the pittance 
that fortune had bestowed. 

Having remained with them a few days, he 
proceeded again to Edinburgh, and immediate- ' 
ly set out on a journey to the Highlands. Of 
this tour no particulars have been found among 
his manuscripts. A letter to his friend Mr 
Ainslie, dated Arrachas, near Crocliairbas, by 
Lochleary, June 28, 1785, commences as fol- 

• • I write you this on my tour through a 
country where savage streams tumble over 
savage mountains, thinly overspread with sav- 
age flocks, which starviugly support as savage 
inhabitants. My last stage was Inverary — to- 
morrow night's stage, Dumbarton. I ought 
sooner to have answered your kind letter, but 
you know I am a man of many sins. " 

From this journey Burns returned to his 
friends in Ayrshire, with whom he spent the 
month of July, renewing his friendships, and 
extending his acquaintance throughout the 
county, where he was now very generally 
known and admired. In August he again 
visited Edinburgh, whence he undertook 
another journey towards the middle of this 
month, in company with Mr M. Adair, now 
Dr Adair of Harrowgate, of which this 



DIAMOND CABIXET LIBRARY. 



sji»ntleman has favoured as with the following 

"Burns and I left Edinburgh together in 
August, 17S7. "We rode by Linlithgow and 
Carron, to Stirling. We visited the iron- works 
at Carron, with which the poet was forcibly 
struck. The resemblance between that place, 
and its inhabitants, to the cave of Cyclops, 
which must have occurred to every classical 
visitor, presented itself to Burns. At Stirling 
the prospects from the castle strongly inter- 
ested him ; in a former visit to which, his 
national feelings had been powerful. y excited 
by the ruinous and rootless state of the hail in 
■which the Scottish Parliaments had frequent- 
ly been held. His indignation had vented it- 
self in some imprudent, but not unpoeucal 
lines, which had siven much off;nc?, and which 
he took this opportunity of erasing, by breaking 
the pane of tne window at the iua on which 
Ihey were written. 

4 'At Stirling we met with a company of 
travellers from Edinburgh, among whom was 
a character in many respects congenial with 
that of Burns. This was Nico!, one of the 
teachers of the High Grammar- School at 
Edinburgh— the same wit and power of con- 
versation ; the same fondness for convivial 
•society, aid thoughtlessness of tomorrow, 
characterized both. Jaeobitical principles in 
politics were common to both of them ; and 
ihese have been suspected, since the revolution 
of France, to Lave given place in each, to 
opinions apparently opposite. I regret that I 
have preserved no memorabilia of their coaver- 
e'.tion, either on this or on other occasions, 
•when I happened to meet them together. 
Many songs were sung ; which I mention for 
the sake of observing, that when Burns was 
called on in his turn, he was accustomed, in- 
btead of singing, to recite one or other of his 
own shorter poems, wi:h a tone and emphasis, 
•which, though not correct or harmonious, 
were impressive and pathetic. This he did on 
the present occasion. 

"• From Stirling we went next morning 
through the romantic and fertile vale of Devon 
to Harvieston, in Clackmannanshire, then in- 
habited by Mrs Hamilton, with the younger 
part of whose family Uurns had been previous- 
ly acquainted. He introduced me to the 
family, and there was formed my first acquain- 
tance with Mrs Hamilton's eldest daughter, to 
whom I have been married for nine years. 
Thus was I indebted to Burns for a connexion 
from which I have derived, and expect further 
to derive, much happiness. 

••During a residence of about ten days at 

parts of the surrounding scenery, inferior to 
none in Scotland, in beauty, Bublimily, and 
romantic interest ; particularly Castle Camp- 
tell., theancieut seat of the family of Argyle ; 
and the famous cataract of the Devon, called 
\beCauldron Linn ; and the Rumbling Bridge, 
a single broad arch, thrown by the Devil, if 
tradition is to be believed, across the river, at 
rvboat the height of a hundred feet above its 
Led. I am surprised that none of these scenes 
should have called forth an exer.ion of Burns 's 
muse. But I doutu if he had much taste for 
the picturesque. 1 well remember, that the 
ladies at Harvieston, who accompanied us on 
this janot, espresso their di. appointment at 



his not expressing in more glowing and fervid 
language, his impressions of the Cauldron Linn 
scene, certainly highly sublime, and somewhat 
horrible. 

** A visit to Mrs Bruce of Clackmannan, 
a lady above ninety, the lineal descendant of 
the race which gave the Scottish throne its 
brightest ornament, interested his feelings more 
powerfully. This venerable dame, with charac- 
teristical dignity, informed me, on my observing 
that I believed she was descended from the fatn- 
ily of Robert Bruce, that Robert Bruce was 
sprung from her family. Though almost de- 
prived of speech by a paral>,lic"affection, she 
preserved her hospitality and urbanity. ' She 
was in posses -ion of the hero's helmet and 
two-handed sword, with which she conferred 
on Burns and myself the honour of knight- 
hood, remarking, that she had a better right to 
confer that M-e than tome peonle. . . . 

You will of coarse conclude that the old .lady's 
political tenets were as Jaeobitical as "the 
poet's, a conformity which contributed r.ot a 
little to the cordiality of our reception and en- 
tertainment. — Sae gave as her tirst toast after 
dinner, Aica, Una*, or, Away with the Stran- 
gers. — Wuo these strangers were you will 
readily understand. Mrs A. corrects me by 
saying it should be Hoci, or Hcoki ur.cos, a 
sound used by shepherds to direct their dogs to 
drive away tLe sheep. 

■'We returned to Edinburgh by Kinross 
(on the shore of Loehleven) and Queens ferry. 
I am inclined to think Burns knew nothing of 
poor Michael Bruce, who was then alive at 
Kinross, or had died there a short while before. 
A meeting between the bards, or a vi-it to the 
deserted cottage and early grave of poor Bruce, 
would have been highly interesting.* 

"At Dunfermline "we visited the ruined 
abbey, and the abbey-cburch now consecrated 
to Presbyterian worship. Here I mounted 
the cutty stool, or stool of repentance, assum- 
ing the character of a penitent for fornication ; 
while Burns from the pulp t addressed to me 
a ludicrous reproof and exhortation, parodied 
from that which had been delivered to hir^sslf 
in Ayrshire, where he had, as he assured me, 
once been one of seven who mounted the seat of 
shams together. 

" In the church-yard two broad flag-stones 
marked the grave of Robert Bruce, for whose 
memory Burns had more than common venera- 
tion. He knelt and kissed the stone with 
sacred fervour, and heartily (suits ut mos erat) 
execrated the worse than Gothic neglect of the 
hrst of Scottish heroes, "j 



The surprise expressed by Dr Adair, in his 
excellent letter, that the romantic sc?nery of 
the Devon should have failed to call forth any 
exertion of the poet's muse, is not in its natur9 
singular; and the disappointment felt at his 
not expressing in more giowing language his 
emotions on the sight of the famous cataract 
of that river, is similar to what was felt by the 
friends of Burns on other occasions of the 



* Bmce died some years before. 
f Extracted from a letter of Dr Adair to thi 
Editor. 



BURNS.— LIFE. 



eame nature. Yet the inference that Dr Adair 
seems inclined to draw from it, that he had 
little taste for the picturesque, might be ques- 
tioned, even if it stood uncontroverted hy other 
evidence. The mu.se of Burns was in a high 
decree capricious ; she came uncalled, and 
often refused to attend at his bidding. Of all 
the numerous subjects suggested to him by his 
friends and correspondent's, there is scarcely 
one that he adopted. The very expectation 
that a particular occasion would excite the 
energies of fancy, if communicated to Burns, 
seemed in him, as in other poets, destructive 
of the effect expected. Hence perhaps it may 
be explained, why the banks of the Devon and 
the Tweed form no part of the subjects of his 

A similar train of reasoning may perhaps 
explain the want of emotion with which he 
viewed the Cauldron Linn. Certainly there 
are no affections of the mind more deadened 
by the influence of previous expectation, than 
those arising from the sight of natural objects, 
and more especially of objects of gTandeur. 
Minute descriptions of scenes, of a sublime 
nature, should never be given to those who 
are about to view them, particularly if they 
are persons of great strength and sensibility of 
imagination. Language seldom or never con- 
veys an adequate idea of such objects, but in 
the mind of a great poet it may excite a pic- 
ture that far transcends them. The indica- 
tion of Eurns might form a cataract in com- 
parison with which the Cauldron Linn should 
seem the purling cf a rill, and even the mighty 
falls of Niagara a humble cascade. * 

Whether these suggestions may assist in 
explaining our Bard 's deficiency of impression 
on the occasion referred to, or whether it 
ought rather to be imputed to some pre-oceu- 
pation, or indisposition of mind, we presume 
not to decide ; but that he was in general 
feelingly alive to the beautiful or sublime in 
scenery, may be supported by irresistible evi- 
dence. It is true, this pleasure was greatly 
heightened in his mind, as might be expected, 
when combined with moral emotions of a kind 
with which it happily unites. That under 
this association Burns "contemplated the scen- 
ery ot the Derail with the eye uf a genuine 
poet, the following lines, written at this very- 
period, may bear witness. 



kind. To have formed before-hand 
picture in the mind, of tiny interesting person 
or thing, generally lessens the pleasure of the 
lirst meeting with them. Though tfis picture 
be not superior, or even equal to the reality, 
still it can never be expected to be an exact re- 
semblance ; and the disappointment felt at 
linding it something different from what was 
expected, interrupts and diminishes the emo- 
tion that would otherwise be produced. In 
such cases the second or third interview gives 
more pleasure than the first. See the Elements 
of the Philosophy ol the Human Mind, by Mr 
kteirart, p. 4S4. Such publications as" The 
Guide to the Lakes, where 



rib'd i 



the n 






ith considerable 
gua^e, lire in this point of view objec 



and s. 



of lar 



On a Young Lady, rending on the banks of the 
small river Devon, in Clackmannanshire, but 
whose infant years were spent in Ayrshire. 

How pleasan: the banks of the clear-winding 
Devon, 
With green spreading bushes, and flowers 

But the bouniest flower on the banks cf the 
Devon 

Was once a sweet bud on the traes of the 



And far be thou distant, thou reptile that 
The verdure and pride of the garden and 



A fairer than either adorns the green valleys 
Where Devon, sweet Devon, meandering 

The different journeys already mentioned 
did not satisfy the curiosity of Burns. About 
the beginning of September, he again set out 
from Edinburgh, on a mere extended tour to 
the Highlands, in company with Mr Nicol, 
with whom he had contracted a particular 
iutimacv, which lasted during the remainder 
of his life. Mr Nicol was of Dumfries-shire, 
of a descent equally humble with our poet. 
Like him he rose by the strength of his talents, 
and fell bv the strenetb of his passions. He 
died in the summer of 1797. Having received 
the elements of a classical instruction at his 
parish school, y,T Nicol made a very rapid and 
singular proficiency ; and by early undertaking 
the office of an instructor hin-.self, he acquired 
the means of entering himself at the Univer- 
sity of Edinburgh. There he was first a stu- 
dent of theology, then a student of medicine, 
a> d was afterwards employed in the assistance 
and instruction of graduates in medicine, in 
those parts of their exercises in which the 
La 1 in language is employed. In this situation 
lie was the contemporary and rival of the cele- 
brated Dr Hrewn, whorri he resembled in the 
particulars of his history, as well as in the 
leading features of his character. The office 
of assistant teach r in the High-school being 
vacant, it was, as usual, filled up by competi- 
tion ; and in the face of some prejudices, and 
perhaps of some well-founded objections, Mr 
Nicol, by superior learning, carried it from all 
the other candidates. This office he filled at 
the period of which we speak. 

It is to be lamented; that an acquaintance 
with the writers of Greece and Rome does not 
always supply an original want of taste and 
correctness in manners and conduct ; and where 
it fails of this effect, it sometimes intiauie* 



42 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



the native pride of temper, which treats with 
disdain those delicacies in which it has not 
learned to excel. It was thus with the fellow- 
traveller of Burns. Formed by nature in a 
model of great strength, neither his person nor 
his manners had any tincture of taste or ele- 
gance ; and his coarseness was not compen- 
sated by that romantic sensibility, and those 
towering flights of imagination, which distin- 
guished the conversation of Burns, in the 
blaze of whose genius all the deficiencies of 
his manners were absorbed and disappeared. 

Mr Nicol and our poet travelled in a post- 
chaise, which they engaged for the journey, 
and passing through the heart of the Highlands, 
stretched northwards, about ten miles beyond 
Inverness. There they bent their course east- 
ward, across the island, and returned by the 
Ehore of the German Sea to Edinburgh. In 
the course of this tour, some particulars of 
which will be found in a letter of our 
bard, they visited a number of remarkable 
scenes, and the imagination of Burns was 
constantly excited by the wild and sublime 
scenery through which he passed. Of this, 
several proofs may be found in the poems for- 
merly printed * Of the history cf one of these 
poems, The humbk Petition of Brnar WaJer, 
and of the bard's visit to Athole House, some 
particulars wiil be found in Letters No. 33. and 
No. 34 : and, by the favour of Mr Walker of 
Perth, then residing in the family of the Duke 
f Athole, we are enabled to give the following 



addit 



Hi a 



•On reaching Blair, he sent me notice of 
his arrival (as I nad been previously acquainted 
with him), and I hastened to meet' him at the 
inn. The Duke, to whom he brought a letter 
of introduction, was from home ; but the 
Duchess, being informed of his arrival, gave 
him an invitation to sup and sleep at Athole 
House. He accepted the invitaliou ; but, as 
the hour of supper was at some distance, beg- 
ged I would iu the interval be his guide through 
the grounds. It was already growing dark ; 
yet the softened, though faint and uncertain, 
view of their beauties, which the moonlight 
afforded us, seemed exactly suited to the state 
of his feelings at the time. I had often, like 
others, experienced the pleasures vvlriob arise 
from the sublime or elegant landscape, but I 
never saw those feelings so intense as in Burns. 
AVhen we reached a" rustic hut on the river 
Tilt, where it is overhung by a woody preci- 
pice, from which there is a noble water-fall, 
he threw himself on the heathy seat, and gave 
himself up to a tender, abstracted, and volup- 
tuous enthusiasm of imagination. I cannot 
help thinking it might have been here that he 
conceived the idea of the following lines, 
which he afterwards introduced into his poem 
on Bruar Water, when only fancying such a 
combination of objects as were now present to 



* See " Lines on seeing some water fowl in 
Loch Turk, a wild scene among the hills of 
Ochtertyre. " «' Lines written with a Pencil 
over the chimney piece, in the Inn at Ken- 
more, Taymouth". " "Lines written with a 
pencil standing by the Fall of Fyres, near 
Lochias. '* - - 



Or by the reaper's nightlj beam, 
Mild chequering through the trees, 

Rave to my darkly-dashing stream. 
Hoarse swelling on the breeze. 

"It was with much difficulty I prevailed on 
him to quit this spot, and to be introduced in 
proper time to supper. 

"My curiosity was great to see how he 
would conduct himself in company so different 
from what he had been accustomed to. t His 
manner was unembarrassed, plain, and firm. 
He appeared to have complete reliance on his 
own native good sense for directing his beha- 
viour. He seemed at once to perceive and to 
appreciate what was due to the company and 
to himself, and never to forget a proper respect 
for the separate species of dignity belonging to 
each. He did not arrogate conversation, but, 
when led into it, bespoke with ease, propriety, 
and manliness. He tried to exert his abilities, 
because he knew it was ability alone gave him 
a title to be there. The Duke's fine young 
family attracted much of his admiration ; he 
drank their healths as honest men and bonnie 
lasses, an idea which was much applauded by 
the company, and with which he has very feli- 
citously closed his poem. 

" Next day I took a ride with him through 
some of the most romantic parts of that neigh, 
bourbood, and was highly gratified by his con. 
versation. As a specimen of his happiness of 
conception and strength of expression, I will 
mention a remark which he made on his fellow- 
traveiler, who was walking at the time a few- 
paces before us. He was a man of a robust 
but clumsy person ; and while Burns was ex- 
pressing to me the value he entertained for him, 
on account of his vigorous talents, although 
they were clouded at times by coarseness of 
manners ; ' in short, ' he added, ' his mind 
is like his body ; he has a confounded strong 
in-kneed sort of a souL ' 

"Much attention was paid to Burns both 
before and after the Duke's return, of which he 
was perfectly sensible, without being vain ; 
and at his departure I recommended to him, as 
the most appropriate return he could make, to 
write some descriptive verses on any of the 
scenes with which he had been so much de- 
lighted. After leaving Blair, he, by the 
Duke's advice, visited the Falls of B mar, and 
in a few days I received a letter from Inverness, 
with the verses inclosed. "J 

It appears that the impression made by our 
poet on the noble family of Athole was in a 
high degree favourable ; it is certain he was 
charmed with the reception he received from 
them, and he often mentioned the two days he 
spent at Alhole-house as among ihe happiest of 
his life. He was warmly invited to prolong 
his stay, but sacrificed his inclinations to his 
engagement with Mr Nicol ; which is the more 
to be regretted, as he would otherwise have 



+ In the preceding- winter, Burns had been 
in company of the highest rank in Edinburgh ; 
but this description of his manners is perfectly 
applicable to his first appearance in such 
society. 

% Extract of a letter from Mr "Walker to Mr 
Cunnimrhnm, dated Perth, 21th October, 
1797. " 



BUKNS.— LITE. 



been introduced to Mr Dundas (then daily ex- 
pected on a visit to the Duke), a circumstance 
that might have had a favourable influence on 
Burns' future fortunes. At Athole house, he 
met, for the first time, Mr Graham of Fintry, 
to whom he was afterwards indebted for his 
office in the Excise. 

The letters and poems which he addressed 
to Mr Graham, bear testimony of his sensibil- 
ity, and justify the supposition, that he would 
not have been deficient in gratitude had he 
been elevated to a situation better suited to his 
disposition and to his talents. 

A few days after leaving Blair of Athole, 
our poet and his fellow-traveller arrived at 
Fochabers. In the course of the preceding 
winter Burns had been introduced to the 
Duchess of Gordon at Edinburgh, and pre- 
suming on this acquaintance, he proceeded to 
Gordon Castle, leaving Mr Nicol at the inn in 
the village. At the castle our poet was re- 
ceived with the utmost hospitality and kind- 
ness, and the family being about to sit down 
to dinner, he was invited to take his place at 
table as a matter of course. This invitation 
he accepted, and after drinking a few glasses 
of wine, he rose up and proposed to withdraw. 
On being pressed to stay, he mentioned, for 
the first time, his engagement with his fellow- 
traveller ; and his noble host offering to send 
a servant to conduct Mr Nicol to the castle, 
Burns insisted on undertaking that office him . 
self. He was, however, accompanied by a 
gentleman, a particular acquaintance of the 
Duke, by whom the invitation was delivered 
in all the forms of politeness. The invitation 
came too late ; the pride of Nicol was inflamed 
to a high degree of passion, by the neglect 
which he had already suffered He had ordered 
the horses to be put to the carriage, being de- 
termined to proceed on his journey alone: and 
they found him parading the streets of Focha- 
bers, before the door of the inn, venting his 
anger on the postilion, for the slowness with 
which he obeyed his commands. As no ex- 
planation nor entreaty could change the pur- 
pose of his fellow-traveller, our poet was 
reduced to the necessity of separating fro u 
him entirely, or of instantly proceeding with 
him on their journey. He chose the last of 
'' 7 himself beside 
th mortification 
s turned his back on Gordon 
Castle," where he had promised himself some 
happy days. Sensible, however, of the great 
kindness of the noble family, he made the best 
return in his power, by the following poem.* 



Streams that glide in orient plains 
Never bound by winter's chains ; 
Glowing here on golden sands, 
There commix 'd with foulest stains 
From tyranny's empurpled bands: 
These, their richly gleaming waves, 
I leave to tyrants and their slaves ; 
Give me the stream that sweetly laves 
The banks ly Castle- Gordon. 



II. 



Spicy forests ever gay, 
Shading from the burning ray 
Hapless wretches sold to toil, 
Or the ruthless native's way, 
Bent on slaughter, blood, and spoil, 
"Woods that ever verdant wave, 
I leave the tyrant and the slave, 
Give me the groves that lofty brave 
The storms, by Castle-Gordon. 

: in. 

Wildly here, without control, 
Nature reigns and rules the whole ; 
In that sober pensive mood, 
Dearest to the feeling soul, 
She plants the forest, pours the flood, 
Life's poor day I'll musing rave, 
And find at night a sheltering cave, 
Where waters flow and wild woods wa 
By bonnie Castle Gordon, f 



entered into the society and dissipation of that 
metropolis. It appears that, on the 3 1st day 
of December, he at ended a meeting to cele- 
brate the birth-day of the lineal descendant of 
the Scottish race of kin?s, the late unfortunate 
Prince Charles Edward. Whatever might 
have been the wish or purpose of the original 
institutors of this annual meeting, there is no 
reason to suppose that the gentlemen of which 
it was at this time composed, were not per- 
fectly loyal to the king on the throne. It is 
not to be conceived that they entertained any 
hope of, any wish for, the restoration of the 
House of Stuart ; but, over their sparkling 
wine, they indulged the generous feelings 
which the recollection of falle.i greatness is 
calculated to inspire ; and commemorated the 
heroic valour which strove to sustain it in vain 
— valour worthy of a nobler cause and a hap- 
pier fortune. On this occasion our bard took 
upon himself the office of poet-laureate, and 
produced an ode, which, though deficient in 
the complicated rhythm and polished versifica- 
tion that such compositions require, might, on 
a fair competition, where energy of feelings 
and of expression were alone in question, have 
won the butt of Malmsey from the real laureate 
of that day. 

The following extracts may serve as a speci- 



False flatterer, Hope, away ! 
Nor think to lure us as in days of yore, 

We solemnize this sorrowing natal day, 
To prove our loyal truth— we can no more ; 

And, owning Heaven's mysterious sway, 
Submissive, low, adore. 

II. 

Ye honour 'd mighty dead ! 
Who nobly perish 'd in the glorious cause, 
Your king, your country, and her laws ! 



f These versesour poet composed to be sung 
to Morag, a Highland air of which he was ex- 
tremely fond. 



DIAMCXD CABINET LIBRARY. 



which will be viewed by 



From great Dundee, who smiling vic- 
tory led, . 
And fell a martyr in her arms, 
(What breast of northern ice but warms ?) 
To bold Balmerino's undying name, 
Whose sjuI, of tire, lighted at Heaven's high 

flame, 
Deserves the proudest wreath departed heroes 



III. 

Not nnrevenged ycur fate shall be ; 

It only lags, the fatal hour ; 
Your blo.d shall with incessant cry 

Awake at last th' unsparing power. 
As from the cliff, with thundering course, 

The snowy ruin smokes along, 
With doublfng speed and gathering force, 
Till deep it crashing whelms the cottage in the 

So vengeance .... 

In relating the incidents of our poet's life in 
Edinburgh, we ought to have mentioned the 
sentiments of respect and sympathy wi:h which 
he traced out the grave of his predecessor 
Fergusson, over whose ashes, in the Canongate 
churchyard, he obtained lea> 
humble" luonurx ' 

reflecting mincL 

which will awake, in the bosom of kindred 
genius, many a hgn emotion. Neither should 
we pass over the continued friendship he ex- 
perienced from a poet then living, lha amiable 
and accomplished Blacklo^k To his encour- 
aging advice it was owing (as has already ap- 
peared) that Burns, instead of emigrating lo the 
West Indies, repaired to Edinburgh. lie re- 
ceived him trere with all the ardour of affec- 
tionate admiration ; he eagerly introduced h:m 
to the respectable circle of his friends ; he 
consulted his interest ; he blazoned his fame; 
he lavished upon him all the kindness of a 
generous and feeling heart, into which nothing 
6elfish or envious ever found admittance. 
Among the friends whom he introduced to 
Burns was Mr Ramsay of Ochtertyre, to 
whom our poet paid a visit in the autumn 
of 1787. at his delightful retirement in the 
neighbourhood of Stirling, and on the backs of 
the Teith. Of this visit we have the following 
particulars: 

" I have been in the company of many men 
of genius," says Mr Ramsay, '"some of them 
poets, but never witnessed such flashes of in- 
telhc ual brightness as from him, the impulse 
of the moment, sparks of celestial tire ! I 
never was more delighted, therefore, than wilh 
his company for two days, tete-a-tete. In a 
mixed company I should, have made little of 
him ; for, in the gamester's phrase, he did not 



* In the first part of this ode there is some 
beautiful imagery, which the poet afterwards 
interwove in a happier manner, in the Cheva- 
lier's Lament. But if there were no other 
rea-ons for omitting to print the entire poem, 
the want of originality would be sufficient. A 
considerable part of "it is a kind of rant, for 
which, indeed, precedent may be cited in 
various other odes, tut with which it is impos- 
sible to go along. 



always know when to play off and when t» 
play on. . . I net only propo-ei lo him the 
writing of a play similar to ihe Gtiiile Shep- 
herd, qualem decet ease sororem, hut Seoituh 
Georgics, a subject which Thomson has by no 
means exhausted in his Seasons What beau, 
liful landscapes of rural life and manners might 
not have been expected from a pencil so faith- 
ful and forcible as his, which could have ex- 
hibited scenes as familiar and interesting as 
those in the Gtrntle Shepherd, which every 
one, who knows our swains in tne unadult-rat-d 
stale, instantly recognises as true to nature. 
But to have "executed either of these plans, 
steadiness and abstraclion from company were 
wanting, not talents. When I a^ked him 
whether the Ecinturgh Literati had mended 



5 poem 



y :hei 



aid he, 



e gentlemen remind me of some spinsters 
in inv countrv, who spin their thread so fine 
thit ft is neither lit for weft nor woof.' He 
said be had not changed a word except one, to 
please Dr Blair."* 

Having settled with his publisher, Mr Creech, 
in February, 17SS, Burns found himself mas- 
ter of nearly rive hundred Dounds, afier dis- 
charging a'll his expenses! Two hundred 
pounds he immediately advanced to his brother 
Gi;bert, who had taken upon himself the 
support of their aged mother, and was strug- 
gling with 'many difficulties in the farm of 
Mossgiel. With the remainder of this sum, 
and some further eventual profits from his 
poems, he determined on settling himse:f for 
life i:i the occupation of agriculture, and took 
from Mr Miller of Dalswinton, the farm of 
Ellislaud, on the banks cf the river Nilb, six 
miles above Dumfries, on which he entered 
at Whitsunday, 17SS. Having been previous- 
ly recommended to the Board of Excise, his 
name had been put on the list of candidates for 
the humble office of a gauger or exciseman ; 
and he immediately applied to acquiring tbe in- 
formation necessary for fillii <z that office, when 
the honourable Board might judge it proper to 

lie expected to be called into service in the 
district in which his farm was situated, and 
vainly hoped to uni'e with success the labours 
of the farmer with the duties of the exciseman. 

When Hums had in this manner arranged 
his p'ans for futurity, his generous heart 
turned to the object of "bis most ardent attach- 
ment, and listening to no c nsiderations but 
those of honour and affection, be j ined with 
her in a public declaration of marriage, thus 
legalizing their union, and rendering it perma- 
nent for life. 

Before Burns was known in Edinburgh, a 
specimen of his poetrv had recommended him 
to Mr Miller of Dalswinton. Understanding 
that he intended to resume the life of a farmer, 
Mr Miller had invited him in the spring of 
17S7, to view his estate in Xilhsdale, offering 
him at the same time the choice of any of his 



* Extract cf a letter from Mr Ramsay to the 
Editor. "This incoirigibility of Burns ex- 
tended, however, only to his po'ems printed be- 
fore he arrived in Edinburgh ,- for, in regard to 
his unpublished poems, he was amenable to 
criticism, of which many proofs may be given.' 
gee some remarks on this subject, in Appendix. 



BURNS LIFE. 



45 



farms out of lease, at such a rent as Burns and 
bis friends might judge proper. It was not in 
the nature of Bums to take an undue advan- 
tage of the liberality of Mr Miller. He pro- 
ceeded in (his business, however, with more 
than usual deliberation. Having made choice 
of the farm of Ellisland, he employed two of 
his friends, skilled in the value of land, to ex- 
amine it, and, with their approbation, offered 
a rent to Mr Miller, which was immediately ac- 
cepted. It was not convenient for Mrs Burns 
to remove immediately from Ayrshire, and cur 
poet therefore took up his residence alone at 
Ellisland, to prepare for the reception of his 
wife and children, who joined him towards the 
end of the year. 

The situation in which Burns now found 
himself was calculated to awaken reflection. 
The different steps he had of late taken were 
in their nature highly important, and might be 
said to have, in some measure, iixed his destiny. 
He had become a husband and a father ; he 
had engaged in the management of a consi- 
derable farm, a difficult and laborious under- 
taking ; in his success the happiness of his 
family was involved; it was time, therefore, 
to abandon the gayety and dissipation of which 
he had been too much enamoured ; to ponder 
seriously on the past, and to form virtuous re- 
solutions respecting the future. That such 
was actually the state of his mind, the follow- 
ing extract from his commou-place book may 
bear witness: — 

"Ellisland, Sunday, lilh June, 17SS. 
«■ This is now the third day that I have been 
in this country. ' Lord, what is man!" V> hat 
a bustling little bundle of passions, appetites, 
ideas, and fancies ! and what a capricious kind 
of existence he has here ! . . There is 
indeed an elsewhere, where, as Thomson says, 
virtue sole suriives. 

"Tell us, ye dead: 
"Will none of you in pity disclose the secret, 
What 'tis you are, and we must shortly be ? 

A little time 
Will make us wise as you are, and as close. " 

*' T am such a coward in life, so tired of 
the service, that I would almost at any time, 
with Milton's Adam, 'gladly lay me in my 
mother's lap, and be at peace. ' 

" But a wife and children bind me to strug- 
gle with the stream, till some sudden squall 
shall overset the silly vessel, or in the listless 
return of years, its own craziness reduce it to 
a wreck. Farewell now to those giddy follies, 
those varnished vices, which, though half- 
sanctified by the bewitching levity of wit, and 
humour, are at best but thriftless iclirg with 
the precious current of existence ; nay, often 
poisoning the whole, that, like the plains of 
Jericho, tlie water is naught and the ground 
barren, and nothing short of a supernaturally- 
gifted Elisha can ever after heal the evils. 

«' Wedlock, the circumstance that buckles 
me hardest to care, if virtue and religion were 
to be any thing with me but names, was what 
in a few seasons I must have resolved on ; in 
my present situation it was alsolutely neces- 
sary. Humanity, generosity, honest pride of 
character, justice, to my own happiness for 
after life, so far a9 it could depend (which it 



surely will a great deal) on internal peace ; all 
thtse joined their warmest suffrages, their most 
powerful solicitations, with a roots d attach- 
ment, to urge the step I have taken. Ivor 
have I any reasou on lur part to repent it. — 
I can fancy how, but have never seen where, 
I could have made a better choice. Come, 
then, let me act up to my favourite motto 
that glorious passage in Young — 



• On reas. 
That column of true 



j)\l r. 



Jnder the impels 


! of these reflections, 


rns immediately er, 


»aged in rebuilding the 


ellins-house on hi 


farm, which, in the 


e he found it, w?. 


inadecuate to the ac- 




lilv. On this occasion, 


himself resumed 


.t times the occupation 



of a 






:mu i, 



,eiiU 



his skill impaired Pleased w ilh surveying the 

grounds he was about to cultivate, and with 
the rearing of a i uilding that shcuid give shelter 
to his wife and children, and, as he foudly 
hoped, to his own grey hairs, sentiments of 
independence buoyed up his mind, pictures of 
domestic content "and peace rose en his ima- 
gination ; and a few days passed away, as he 
himself informs us, the most tranquil, if not 
the happiest, which he had ever experienced.* 
It is to be lamented that at this critical 
period of his life, our poet was without the 
society of his wife and children. A great 
change had taken place in his situation ; his) 
old habits were broken ; and the new Circum- 
stances in which he was placed were calculated 
to give a new direction to his thoughts and 
conduct. f But his application to the cares 
and labours of his farm was interrupted by 
several visits to his family in Ayrshire; and 
as the distance was too great for a single day's 



sion were in part expressed by the following 
vigorous and characteristic, though not very 
delicate verses : they are in imitation of an old 
ballad. 

I hae a wife o' my ain, 
I'll partake wi' nae-lody ; 

I'll tak cuckold frae nane, 
I'll gie cuckold to nae-Lcdy. 

I hae a pency to spend, 

'I here— thanks to nae-bocy ; 

I hae naethiug to lend, 
I'll borrow frae nac-body. 

I am nae-body's lord, 

i '11 be slave to nae-body ; 

I hae a guid braid sword, 
I'll tak dunts frae nae-body. 

I'll be merry and free, 

I'll be sad for nae-body ; 
If nae-body care for me, 

I'll care for nae body. 

j- Mrs Burns was about to he confned ia 
child-bed, and the house at Ellisland was re 
lu ; ldiug. , • 



46 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



journey, he generally speut a night at an inn I 
on the road. On such occasions he sometimes j 
fell into company, and forgot the resolutions i 
he had formed. In a little while temptation | 
assailed him nearer horae. 

His fame naturally drew upon him the at- I 
tention of his neighbours, and he soon formed 
a general acquaintance in the district in -which 
he lived. The public voice had now pro- 
nounced on the subject of his talents ; the re- 
ception he had met with in Edinburgh had 
given him the currency which fashion bestows : 
he had surmounted the prejudices arising from 
his humble birth, and he was received at the 
table of the gentlemen of Nithsdale w th wel- 
come, with kindness, and even with respect. 
Their social parties too often seduced him from 
his rustic labours and his rustic fare, overthrew 
the unsteady fabric of his resolutions, and in- 
flamed those propensities which temperance 
might have weakened, and prudence ultimately 
suppressed. * Jt was not long, therefore, be- 
fore Burns began to view his farm with dislike 
and despondence, if not with disgust. 
k Unfortunately he had for several years looked 
to an office in the Excise as a certain means of 
livelihood, should his other expectations fail. 
As has already been mentioned, he had been 
recommended to the Beard of Excise, and had 

situation. He now applied to be employed ; 
and, by the interest of Mr Graham of Fintra, 
was appointed to be exci-eman, or, as it is 
vulgarly called, gaugcr, of the district in which 
he lived. His farm was, after this, in a 
great measure abandoned to servants, while he 
betook himself to the duties of his new appoint- 

He might indeed still be seen in the spring, 
directing his plough, a labour in which he ex- 
celled; or with a white sheet, containing his 
seed-corn, slung across his shoulders, striding 
with measured steps along his turned up fur- 
rows, and scattering the grain in the earth, 
but his farm no longer occupied the principal 
part of his care or his thoughts. It was not at 
Ellisland that he was now in general to be 
found. Mounted on horseback, this high- 
minded poet was pursuing the defaulters of the 
revenue, among the hills and vales of Niths- 
dale, his roving eye wandering over the charms 
of nature, and muttering his icay ward fancies 
as he moved along. 

" I had an adventure with him in the year 
1790," says Mr Ramsay of Ochtertyrej in a 



* The poem of The Whistle celebrates a 
Bacchanalian contest among three gentlemen 
of Nithsdale, where Burns appears as umpire. ; 
Mr Riddel died before our bard, and some : 
elegiac verses to his memory will be found in 
this volume. From him, and from all the 
members of his family, Burns received not . 
kindness only but friendship ; and the society | 
he met in general at Friar's Carse was calcu- [ 
lated to improve his habits as well as his man- ; 
ners. Mr Ferguson of Craigdarroch, so well i 
known for his eloquence and social talents, | 
died sood after our poet. Sir Robert Lawrie, 
the third person in the drama, survives, and has 
since been engaged in contests of a bloodier 
nature. Long may he live to fight the battles 
of his country ! (K99.) — ' I 



Dr Stuart of Luss. Seeing him pass quickly 
near Closeburn, I said to my companion, ' that 
is Burns. ' On coming to the inn, the hostler 
told us he would be back in a few hours to 
grant permits ; that where he met with any 
thing seizable he was no better than any other 
gauger, in every thing else, he was perfectly a 
gentleman. After leaving a note to be delivered 
to him on his return, I proceeded to his house, 
being curious to see his Jean, &c I was much 
pleased with his uxor Sahina qualis, and the 
poet's modest mansion, so unlike the habitation 
of ordinary rustics. In the evening he sud- 
denly bounced in upon us, and said, as he 
entered, I come, to use the words of Shak- 
speare, slewed in haste. In fact, he had ridden 
incredibly last after receiving my note. We 
fell into conversation directly, and soon got 
into the mare magnum of poetry. He told me 
that he had now gotten a story for a dvamn, 
which he was to call Rob Macqueehan.' s Eishon, 
from a popular story of Robert Bruce being 
defeated on the water of Caern, when the heel 
of his boot having loosened in his flight he 
applied to Robert Mazquechan to fix it ; who, 
to make sure, ran his awl nine inches up tho 
king's heel. We were now going on at a great 

rate, when Mr S popped iu his head; 

which put a stop to our discourse, which had 
become very interesting. Yet in a little while 
it was resumed, and such was the force and 
versatility of the bard's genius, that he made 

the tears run down Mr S 's cheeks, 

albeit unused to the poetic strain. .... 
From that time we met no more, and I was 
grieved at the reports of him afterwards. 
Poor Burns ! we shall hardly ever see his like 
again. He was, in truth, a sort of comet in 
literature, irregular in its motions, which did 
not do good proportioned to the blaze of light 
it displayed. " 

In the summer of 1791, two English gentle- 
men, who had before met with him in Edin- 
burgh, made a visit to him at Ellisland. On 
calling at the house, they were informed that 
he had walked out on ihe banks of the river ; 
and dismounting from their horses, they pro- 
ceeded in search of him. On a rock that pro- 
jected into the stream, they saw a man employ- 
ed in angling, of a singular appearance. He 
had a cap made o'' a fox's skin on his head, a 
loose great-coat fixed round him by a belt, 
from which depended an enormous Highland 
broad-sword. It was Burns. He received 
them with great cordiality, and asked them to 
share his humble dinner — an invitation which 
they accepted. On the table they found boiled 
beef, with vegetables and barley-broth, after 
the manner of Scotland, of which they partook 
heartily. After dinner, the bard told them 
ingenuously that he had no wine to offer 
them, nothing better than Highland whisky, 
a bottle of which Mrs Burns set on the board. 
He produced at the same time his punch- 
bowl, made of Inverary marble, and, mixing 
the spirits with water and sugar, filled their 
glasses, and invited them to ,drink. * The 



* This bowl was made of the stone of which 
Inverary house is built, the mansion of the 
family of Argyle. .. -.. ' 



BURNS LIFE. 



« 



travellers were in haste, and besides, the 
flavour of the whisky to their touthron pa- 
lates was scarcely tolerable; but the gen- 
erous poet offered thein his best, and bis 
ardent hospitality they found it impossible to 
resist. Burns was in his happiest mood, and 
the charms of bis conversation were altogether 
fascinating. He ranged over a great variety 
of topics, illuminating whatever he touched. 
He related the tales of his infancy and of his 
youth ; he recited some of the gayest and some 
of the teuderest of his poems ; in the wildest of 
his strains of mirth, he threw in touches of 
melancholy, and spread around him the elec- 
tric emotions of his powerful mind. The high- 
laud whisky improved in its flavour ; the marble 
bowl was again and again emptied and replen- 
ished ; the guests of our poet torgot the iiight 
of time, and the dictates of prudence : at the 
hour of midnight they lost their way in return- 
ing to Dumfries, and could scarcely distin- 
guish it when assisted by the morning's 

Besides his duties in the Excise and his so- 
cial pleasures, other circumstances interfered 
with the attention of Burns to his farm. He 
engaged in the formation of a society for pur- 
chasing and circulating books among the far- 
mers of his neighbourhood, of which he un- 
dertook the management ; and he occupied 
himself occasionally in composing songs for 
the musical work of Mr Johnson, then in the 
course of publication. These engagements, 
useful and honourable in themselves, contri- 
buted, no doubt, to the abstraction of his 
thoughts from the business of agriculture. 

The consequences may be easily imagined. 
Notwithstanding the uniform prudence and 
good management of Mrs Burns, and though 
his rent was moderate and reasonable, our 
poet found it convenient, if not necessary, to 
resign his farm to Mr Miller ; after having oc- 
cupied it three years and a half. His office in 
the Excise had originally produced about fifty 
pounds per annum. Having acquitted him- 
self to the satisfaction of the Board, he had 
been appointed to a new district, the emolu- 
ments of which rose to about seventy pounds 
per annum. Hoping to support himself and 
his family on this humble income till promo- 
tion should reach him, he disposed of his stock 
and of his crop on Ellisland by public auction, 
and removed to a small house which he had tak- 
en in Dumfries, about the end of the year 1791. 

Hitherto Burns, though addicted to excess in 
social parties, had abstained from the habit- 
ual use of strong liquors, and his constitution 
had not suffered any permanent injury from 
the irregularities of his conduct. In Dumfries, 
temptations to the si7i that so eusily beset him, 
continually presented themselves ; and his ir- 
regularities grew by degrees into habits. These 
temptations unhappily occurred during his en- 
gagements in the business of his office, as well 
as during his hours of relaxation ; and though 
he clearly foresaw the consequence of yielding 
to them, his appetites and sensations, which 
could not pervert the dictates of his judgment, 
finally triumphed over all the powers of his 
will. Yet this victory was not obtained with- 



out many obstinate struggles, and at times 
temperance and virtue seemed to have obtained 
the mastery. Besides his engagements in the 
Excise, and the society into which they led, 
many circumstances contributed to the melan- 
choly fate of Burns. His great celebrity made 
him an object of interest and curiosity to stran- 
gers, and few persons of cultivated minds pas- 
sed through Dumfries without attempting to 
see our poet, and to enjoy the pleasure of his 
conversation. As he could not receive them 
under his own humble roof, these interviews 
passed at the inns of the town, and often ter- 
minated in those excesses which Burns some- 
times provoked, and was seldom able to resist. 
And among the inhabitants of Dumfries and 
its vicinity, there were never wanting persons 
to share his social pleasures ; to lead or accom- 
pany him to the tavern ; to partake in the 
wildest sallies of his wit; to witness the 
strength and degradation of his genius. 

Still, however, he cultivated the society of 
persons of taste and respectabiiitv, and in their 
company could impose on himself the restraints 
of temperance and decorum. Nor was his 
muse dormant. In the four years which he 
lived in Dumfries, he produced many of his 
beautiful lyrics, though it does not appear that 
he attempted any poem of considerable length. 
During this time, he made several excursions 
into the neighbouring country, of one of which 
through Galloway, an account is preserved in 
a letter of Mr Syme, written soon after; 
which, as it gives an animated picture of him 
by a correct and masterly hand, we shall pre- 
sent to the reader. 

" I got Burns a grey highland ehelty to ride 
on. We dined the lir=t day, 27th July, 1793, 
at Glendenwynes cf Parton ; a beautiful situa- 
tion on the banks of the Dee. In the evening 
we walked out, and ascended a gentle eminence, 
from which we had as fine a view of Alpine 
scenery as can well be imagined. A delightful 
soft evening showed all its wilder as well as 
its grander graces. Immediately opposite, 
and within a mile of us, we saw Airds, a 
charming romantic place, where dwelt Low, 
the author of Mary weep no more for me. f 
This was classical ground for Burns. He 
viewed '• the highest hill which rises o'er the 
source of Dee;" and would have staid till 
"the passing spirit" had appealed, had we 
not resolved to reach Kenmore that night. We 
arrived as Mr and Mrs Gordon were sitting 
down to supper, 

" Here is a genuine baron's seat. The cas- 
tle, an old building, stands on a large natural 
moat. In front, the river Ken winds for se- 
veral miles through the most fertile and beauti- 
ful holmX till it expands into a lake twelve 



f A beautiful and well-known ballad, which 
begins thus : 

The moon had climb 'd the highest hill . 

Which rises o'er the source of Dee, 
And, from the eastern summit, shed 
Its silver light on tower and tree. 
^ The level low ground on the banks of a 
river or stream. This word should be adopted 
from the Scottish, as, indeed, ought several 
others of the same nature. That dialect is 
singularly copious and exact in the denomina- 
tions of natural objects. 



43 



DIAMOND CAEIXLT LIZHA5LY. 



miles long, (lie banks of which, on the south, 
present a fine and soft landscape of green 
knolls, natural wood, and here and there a grey 
rock. On the north, the aspect is great, wild", 
and I may say, tremendous. In short, I can 
scarcely conceive a scene more terribly roman- 
tic than the castle of Kenmore. Burns thinks 
so highly of it, that he meditates a description 
of it in poetry. Indeed, I believe he has begun 
the work. We spent three days with Air 
Gordon, whose polished hospitality is of an 
original and endearing kind. Airs Gordon "s 
lap-dog, Echo, was dead. She would have an 
epitaph for him. Several had been made. 
Burns was asked for one. This was setting 
Hercules to his aistaff. He disliked the sub- 
ject ; but, to please the lady, he would In. 
Here is what he produced : 

la wood and wild, ye warbling throng, 

Your heavy loss deplore ; 
Now half extinct your powers of scng, 

Sweet Echo is no more. 

Ye jarring screeching things aroaud, 

Scream your discordant joy s ; 
Now half your din of tuners sound 

With Echo silent lies. 

•' We left Kenmore, and went to Gatehouse. 
I ;ook him the moor road, where savage and 
desolate regions extended wide arour.d. The 
sky was sympathetic with the wretchedness of 
the soil; it became lowering and dark. The 
hollow winds sighed, the lightnings gleamed, 
the thunder rolled. The poet ecjuyed the 
awful scene — he spoke not a word, but seeuicd 
wrapt in meditation. In a little while the rain 
began to fail; it poured in floods upon as. 
For three hours did the wild elements iT.-nu.ie 
their UUy-JuU upon our defenceless heads. 
Oh, oh I 'twas foul. We got utterly wet ; and 
to revenge ourselves, Burns insisted at Gate- 
house on our getting utterly drunk. 

** From Gaiehouse, we went nest day to 
Kirkcudbright, through a fine country. But 
here I must tell y ou that Burns had got a pair of 
jemmy boots for the journey, which ha«i been 
thoroughly wet, and which had Lceii crm la 
such a manner that it was not possible to get 
thera on again. — The brawny poet tried force, 
and tore them to shreds. A w Milling vexation 
of this sort is more trying to the temper than a 
serious calamity. We were going to Saint 
Mary's Lie, the" seat of the Earl o( Selkirk, and 
the forlorn Burns was discomfited at the thought 
of his ruined boots. A sick stoinaeii, and a 
heart-ache, lent their aid, and the man of \erse 
was quite cccaiU. I attempted to reason \vi h 
him. 'Mercy on us, how he did fume and rage I 
Nothing could reinstate him in temper. I 
tried various expedients, and at last bit on one 
that succeeded. I showed him the house of 

• • • •, across the bay of Wigton. Against 

• • • •, with whom he was offended, he 
expectorated his spleen, and regained a most 
agreeable temper. He was in a most epigram- 
matic humour indeed ! He afterwards fell on 
humbler game. There is one • • • whom 
ne docs not iove. He had a passing blow at him. 

When , deceased, to the devil went 

down, [own crown: 

'Twas nothing wonid serve him tut Satan's 



Thy fool's head, quoth Satan, that crown shall 
I gram thou'rt as wicked, but not quite so 

•« Well, I am to bring you to Kirkcudbright 
along with our poet, without boots. I carried 
the tarn ruins across ray saddle in spite of his 
fuiininations, and in contempt of appearances ; 
and what is more, Lcrd Selkirk carried them 
in his coach to Dumfries. He insisted they 

'• We reached Kirkcudbright about one 
o'clock. 1 haa promised that "we should diua 
with one of the lirst men in our countrv, J. 
Dalzeil. But Burns was in a wild and obstre- 
perous humour, and swore he would not dine 
where he should be under the smallest restraint. 
We prevailed, therefore, on Mr Dalzeil to 
dine with us in the inn, and had a very agree- 
able party. In the evening we set out for St 
Mary 'a Isle. Kobert haa cot absolutely re- 
gained the milkiuess of good temper, and it 
occurred once or twice to h;m, as he rode along, 
thai at Mary's Isle was the seat of a Lord; 
yet that Lord was not an aristocrate, at least 
in his sense of the word. We arrived about 
eight o'clock, as the family were at tea and 
coffee. Sc Mary's Lie is one of the most de- 
lightful places that can, iu my opiaion.be form- 
ed by the assemblage of every soft but not 
tame object which constitutes natural and cul- 
tivated beauty. But not to dwell ou its exter- 
nal graces, let me tell you that we found all 
tLe .auiesof the rami. \ (ail beautiful,) at home, 
a:.c eouie slracgers ; and among others, who 
tut Urban; J Ihe ltaiian sung us many Scot- 
tish songs, accompanied with instrumental 
music. The two young ladies of Selkirk sung 
a^so. We had the song of Lord Gregory, 
which I asked for, to ha\e an opportunity of 
calling on Bums to recite his b'a>iad to that 
tune. He d d recite it ; and such was the 
effect, that a dead silence ensued. It was such 
a siience as a mind of feeling naturally pie. 
serves when it is touched with that enthusiasm 
which banishes every other thought but the 
contemplation and indulgence of the sympathy 
produced. Burns' Lord Gregory is, in my 
opinion, a most beautiful and affecting ballad. 
The fastidious critic may perhaps say, some 
cf the sentiments and imagery are of too eleva- 
ted a kind for such a siyle of composition ; 
for instance, "Thou bolt of Heaven that pass- 
es! by ;" and, "' Ye mustering thunder,'' 6tc. ; 
but this is a colc-b, coded objection, which will 
be said rather than Jelt. 

•' We enjoyed a most happy evening at Lord 
Seikirk 's. We had, iu every sense of the word, 
a feast, in which our minds and our senses 
were equally gratified. The poet was delight- 
ed with bis company, and acquitted himself to 
admiration. The lion that had raged so vio- 
lently in the morning, was now as mild and 
gentle as a lamb. Next day we returned to> 
Dumfries, and so ends our peregrination. I 
told you, that in the midst of the storm, on the 
wilds or Kenmore, Burns was wrapt in medi- 
tation. What do you think he was about? 
He was charging the English army, along with 
Bruce, at Banuockburn. He was engaged iu 
the same manner on our ricle home from St 
Mary's Lie, and I uid not disturb him. Next 
day he produced me the following address of 



BURNS— LIFE. 



43 



Bruce to hie troops, and gave me a copy for 
Dalzell. 

' Scot3, wha ha'e wi' Wallace bled,' &c." 

Burns bad entertained hopes cf promotion 
■n the Excise; but circumstances occurred 
A-hich retarded their fulfilment, and which, in 
his own mind, desiro\ed all expectation of 
ibeir being ever fulfilled. The extraordinary 
■jvents which ushered in the revolution of 
France, interested tbe feelings, and excited the 
jopes of men in every corner of Europe. Pre- 
judice and tyranny seemed about to disappear 
from among men, and the day-star of reu.-on to 
i e upon a benighted world. In the dawn of 
his beautiful morning, the genius cf French 
ieedom appeared on our southern horizon with 
•he countenance of an angel, but speedily as- 
sumed the features of a iltmon, and vanished 
n a shower of blood. 

Though previously a Jacobite and a cavalier, 
turns had shared in the original hopes enter- 
lined of this astonishing revolution, by ardent 
nd benevolent minds. The novelty and the 
azard of the attempt meditated by the First, 
r Constituent Assembly, served rather, it is 
robable, to recommend it to his daring tem- 
per ; and the unfettered scope proposed to be 
iven to every kind of talents, was doubtless 
. ratifying to the feelings of conscious but in- 
ignant genius. Burns foresaw not the mighty 
; jin that was to be the immediate consequence 
•fan enterprise, which, on its commencement, 
i romised so much happiness to the human 
'» ice. And even after the career of guilt and 
f blood commenced, he could not immediately, 
; may be presumed, withdraw his partial gaze 
Irom a people who had so lately breathed the 
-entiments of universal peace and benignity, 
r obliteiate in his besom the pictures of hope 
nd of happiness to which those sentiments 
.'.ad given birth. Under these impressions, he 
id not always conduct himself with the cir- 
•jmspection and prudence which his depend- 
,it situation seemed to demand. He engaged 
ideed in no popular associations so common 
■ t tbe time of which we speak ; but in com- 
;any he did not conceal his opinions of public 
. .leasures, or of the reforms required in the 

■-.is social and unguarded moments, he uttered 

them with a wild and unjustifiable vehemence, 
nformalion of this was given to the Board of 
Excise, with the exaggerations so general in 

• ach cases. A superior officer in that de- 
artmeut was authorized to inquire into his 

< onduct. Burns defended himself in a letter 
ddressed to one of the board, written with 
reat independence of spirit, and with more 
ran his accustomed eloquence. The officer 
ppointed to inquire into his conduct gave a 
avourable report. His steady friend, Mr 
iraham of Fiutra, interposed his good offices 
a his behalf; and the imprudent gauger was 
uffered to retain his situation, but given to 
inderstand that his promotion was deferred, 
md must depend on his future behaviour. 

This circumstance made a deep impression 
•n the mind of Burns. Fame exaggerated his 
nisconduct, and represented him as actually 
dismissed from his office : and this report in- 
duced a gentleman of much respectability to 
propose a subscription in his favour. The 



offer was refused by our poet in a letter ot 
great elevation of sentiment, in which he gives 
an account of the whole of this transaction, and 
defends himself from imputation of disloyal 
sentiments on the one hand, and on the other, 
from the charge of having made svl missions 
for the sake of his office, unworthy of his char- 

*' The partiality of my countrymen,'" he ob- 
serves, " has brought me forward as a man of 
genius, and has given me a character to sup- 
port. In the poet I have avowed manly and 
independent sentiments, which I hope have 
been fcund in the man. Reasons of no lets 
weight than the support of a wife and children, 
have pointed out my present occupation as the 
only eligible line of life within my reach. Still 
my honest fame is my dearest concern, and a 
thousand times have I trembled at the idea of 
the degrading epithets that malice or misrepre- 
sentation may affix to my name. Often in 
blasting anticipation have I listened to some 
future hackney scribbler, with the heavy ma- 
lice of savage stupidity, exultingly asserting 
that Burns, notwithstanding the/, ;/c?cmqA> of 
independence to be found in his works, and 
after having been held up to public view, and 

yet, (jiiite destitute of resources within himself 
to support his borrowed dignity, dwindled into 
a paltry exciseman, and slunk cut tbe rest of: 
his insignificant existence in the meanest of 
pursuits, and among the lowest of mankind. 

lodge my strong disavowal and delianceof such 
slanderous falsehoods. Burns was a poor man 
from his birth, and an exciseman by necessity ; 
but - I Kill say it! the sterling of his honest 
worth, poverty could not debase, and his inde- 
pendent British spirit, oppression might bend, 



but c 



uid i 



t su! c 



of the last acts of his life to copy 
this letter into his look of manuscripts, ac- 
companied by some additional remarks on the 
same subject. It is not surprising, that at a 
season of universal alarm for the safety cf the 
constitution, the indiscreet expressions of a man 
so powerful as Burns, should have attracted 
notice. Tbe times certainly required extraor- 
dinary vigilance in ihose intrusted with the 
admiuistralion of the government, and to insure 
the safety of the constitution was dcubtlesi 
their first duty. Yet generous minds will la- 
ment that their Pleasures of precaution should 
have robbed the imagination of our poet of the 
last prop on which his hopes of independence 
rested, and by embittering his peace, have ag- 
gravated those excesses which were soon to 
conduct him to an untimely grave. 

Though the vehemence of Burns's temper, 
increased as it often was by stimulating liquors, 
might lead him into many improper and un- 
guarded expressions, there seems no reason to 
doubt of his attachment to our mixed form of 
government. In his common-place book, 
where he could have no temptation to disguise* 
are tbe following sentiments — ""Whatever 
might be my sentiments of republics, ancient 
or modern, as to Britain, I ever adjured the 
idea. A constitution which, in its original 
principles, experience has proved to be every 
way fitted for our happiness, it would be in- 
sanity to abandon for an untried visionary 
theory." In conformity to these sentiment^. 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



when the pressing nature of public affairs call- 
ed in ] 795 for a general arming of the people, 
Burns appeared in the ranks of the Pum'ries 
volunteers, and employed his poetical talents 
in stimulating their patriotism ; and at this 
season of alarm, he brought forward the fol- 
lowing Lr.mn, worthy of the Grecian muse, 
■when Greece was most conspicuous for genius 
nnd valour. 

Scene— A FieU of Ba'ile—Time of the day, 
Eieuinz—lke icounced and dying if the vic- 
torious army at e supposed io join in the fol- 
lowing Song. 

Farewell, thou fair dav, thou green earth, and 
ye skies, 
Now -ay wi-h the bright setting sun ; 
Farewell, loves aud friendships, ye dear tender 

Oar race of existence is run ! 

Thou grim king of terrors, thou life's gloomy 



No terrors hast thou to the brave ! 

TLou stracest the dull peasant, he sicks in the 
dark, 

Nor saves e'en the wreck of a name ; 
Thou strikest the young hero - a glorious mark! 

He falis in the blaze of his fame ! 

la the Seld of proud honour— our swords in 
our hands, 

Our king and our country to save — ■ 
While victory shines on life''s last ebbing sands, 

O ! who would not rest with the brave ! * 

Though by nature of an athletic form, Burns 
had in his constitution the peculiarities and the 
delicacies that belong to the temperament of 
genius. He was liable, from a very early pe- 
riod of life, to that interruption in the process 
of digestion, which arises from deep and anxious 
thought, and which is sometimes the effect, and 
sometimes the cause of depression of spirits. 
Connected with this disorder of the stomach, 
there was a disposition to head-ache, affecting 
more especially the temples and eye-balls, and 
frequently accompanied by violent and irregular 
movements of the heart. Endowed by nature 
■with great sensibility of nerves, Burns was, in 
his corporeal, as well as in his mental system, 
liable to inordinate impressions ; to fe\er of 
body as well as of mind. This predisposition 



* This poem was written in 1791. I: was 
printed in Johnson's Musical Museum. The 
poet had an intention, in the latter part of his 
life, of printing it separately, set to music, 
but was advised against it, or at least discour- 
cged from it. The martial ardour which rose 
fco high afterwards, on the threatened invasion, 
had not then acquired the tone necessary to 
give popularity to this noble poem ; which, to 
the editor, seems more calculated to invigorate 
the spirit of defence, in a season of real and 
pressing danger, than any production of modern 
times. It is here printed with his last correc- 



i disease, which strict temperance in diet, 
>gu!ar exercise, and sound sleep, might have 



ulated by 



subdued, habits of a different cat 
ened and inflamed. Perpetually 
alcohol in one or other of its vai"ic„- .„ 
inordinate actions of the circulating system be- 
came at length habitual : the process of nutri- 
tion was unable to supply the waste, and the 
powers of life began to "fail. Upwards of a 
year before his death, there was an evident de- 
cline in our poet's personal appearance, and 
though his appetite continued unimpaired, he 
was himself sensible that his constitution was 
sinking. In his moments of thought he reflect- 
ed with the deepest regret on his fatal progress, 
clearly foreseeing the goal towaids which he 
was hastening, without the strength of mind 
necessary to stop, or even to slacken his course. 
His temper now became more irritable and 
gloomy ; he fled from himself into societv 
often of the lowest kind. And in such con;'- 
pany, that part of the convivial scene, in 
which wine increases sensibility and excites 
benevolence, was hurried over, to reach the 
succeeding part, over which uncontrolled pas- 
sion generally presided. He who suffers the 
pollution of inebriation, how shall he escape 
other pollution ? Eut let us refrain from the 
mention of errors over which delicacy and 
humanity craw the veil. 

In the midst of all his wanderings, Burns 
met nothing in his domestic circle but gentle- 
cess and forgiveness, except in the gnawings 
of his own remorse. He acknowledged his 
transgressions to the wife of his bosom, pro- 
mised amendment, and again and again re- 
ceived pardon for his offences. But as the 
strength of his body decayed, his resolution 
became feebler, and habit acquired predomina- 
ting strength. 

From October, 1792, Io the January follow- 
ing, an accidental complaint confined hm to 
the house. A few days after he began to go 
abroad, he dined at a tavern, and returned home 
about three o'clock in a very cold morning, be- 
numbed and intoxicated. This was followed by 
an attack of rheumatism, which confined him 
about a week. His appetite now began to 
fail : his hand shook, and his voice faltered on 
any exertion or emotion. His pulse becami 



>f the enjoyment of refreshing sleep. Too 
much dejected in his spirits, and too well aware 
of his real situation to entertain hopes of re- 
covery, he was ever musing on the approaching 
desolation of his family, and his spirits sunk 
into a uniform gloom. 

It was hoped by seme of his friends, that 
if he could Ihe through the months of spring, 
the succeeding season might restore him. But 
they were disappointed. The genial beams of 
the sun infused no vigour into his languid 
frame; the summer wind blew upon him, but 
produced no refreshment. About the latter 
end of June he was advised to go into the 
country, and, impatient of medical advice, as 
we'd as of every species of control, he deter- 
mined for himseif to try the effects of bathing 
in the sea. For this purpose he took up his 
residence at Brow, in Anuandale, abcut ten 
miles cast of Dun.fries, on the shore of the 
Polwav-Frith. 

It happened that at that time 



BURNS LIFE. 



61 



whom Tie had been connected" in friendship by 
the sympathies of kindred genius, was residing 
in the immediate neighbourhood. Being in- 
formed of his arrival, she invited him to din- 
ner, and sent her carriage for him to the cottage 
where he lodged, as he was unable to walk. 
— *« I was struck," says this lady (in a confi- 
dential letter to a friend written soon after), 
•« with his appearance on entering the room. 
The stamp of death was impressed on his 
features. He seemed already touching the 
brink of eternity. His tirst salutation was 
• Well, madam, have you any commands for 
the other world?' I replied, that it seemed a 
doubtful case which of us should be there soon- 
est, and that I hoped that he would yet live to 
write my epitaph. (I was then in a poor 
state of health.) He looked in my face with 
an air of great kindness and expressed his con- 
cern at seeing me look so ill, with his accus- 
tomed sensibility. At table he ate little or 
nothing, and he complained of having entirely 
lost the tone of his stomach. We had a long 
and 6erious conversation about his present 
situation, and the approaching termination of 
nil his earthly prospects. He spoke of his 
death without any of the ostentation of philo- 
sophy, but with firmness as well as feeling - as 
an event likely to happen very soon, and which 
gave him concern chiefly from leaving his four 
children so young and unprotected, and his 

pectation of lying in of alifth. He mentioned, 
with seeming pride and satisfaction, the pro- 
mising genius of his eldest sen, and the flatter- 
ing marks of approbation he had received from 
his teachers, and dwelt particularly on his hopes 
of that boy 's future conduct and merit. His 
anxiety for his family seemed to hang heavy 
upon him, and the more perhaps from the re- 
flection that he had not done them all the 
justice he was so well qualified to do. Pass- 
ing from this subject, he showed great concern 
about the care of his literary fame, and particu- 
larly the publication of his posthumous works. 
He "saidhe was well aware that his death would 
occasion some noise, and that every scrap of 
his writing would be revived against him to 
the injury of his future reputation: that let- 
ters and verses written with unguarded and 
improper freedom, and which he earnestly 
wished to have buried in oblivion, would be 
Landed about by idle vanity or malevolence, 
when no dread of his resentment would re- 
strain them, or prevent the censures of shrill 
tongued malice, or the insidious sarcasms of 
envy, from pouring forth all their venom to 
blast his fame. 

" He lamented that he had written many 
epigrams on persons against whom he en- 
tertained no enmity, and whose characters he 
should be sorry to wound ; and many indiffer- 
ent poetical pieces, which he feared would 
|nm, with all their imperfections on their head, 
be thrust upon the world. On this account 
he deeply regretted having deferred to put 
his papers into a state of arrangement, as he 

The lady goes on to mention many other topit'9 
hich he spoke. — 



'The 



shetv 



with great evenness and ; 

I had seldom sren his mind greater 

collected. There wa., frequent!} a 



,1 up 



able degree of vivacity in his sallies, and they 
would probably have had a greater share, hed 
not the concern and dejection I could not dis- 
guise, damped the spirit of pleasantry he 
seemed not unwilling to indulge. 

" We parted cbout sun-et on the evening 
of that day (the 5th of July, 179G); the next 
day 1 saw him again, and we parted to meet 

At lirst, Burns imagined bathing in the sea 
had been of benefit to him: the pains in his 
limbs were relieved ; but this was immediately 
followed by a new attack of fever. When 
brought back to his own house in Dumfries, 
on the 18th of July, he was no longer able to 
stand upright. At. this time a tremor per- 
vaded his frame ; his tongue was parched, and 



jiiud = 



del:r 



ersation. On the second and third 
day the fever increased, and his strength dimi- 
nished. On the fourth, the sufferings of this 
great, but ill-fated genius were terminated, 
and a life was closed in which virtue and pas- 
sion had been at perpetual variance.* 

'the death of Burns made a strong and 
general impression on all who had interested 
themselves in his character, and especially on 
the inhabitants of the town and county in 
which he had spent the latter years of his life. 
Flagrant jis his follies and errors had been, 
they had not deprived him of the respect and 
regard entertained for the extraordinary powers 
of his genius, and the generous qualities of his 
heart. The Gentlemen Volunteers of Dum- 
fries determined to bury their illustrious asso- 
ciate with military honours, and every prepar- 
ation was made to render this last service 
solemn and impressive. The Fencibie Infan- 
try of Angus-shire, and the regiment of cavalry 
of the Cinque Ports, at that time quartered in 
Dumfries, offered their assistance on this oc- 
casion ; the principal inhabitants of the town 
and neighbourhood determined to walk in 
the funeral procession ; and a vast concourse 
of persons assembled, some of them from a 
considerable distance, to witness the obsequies 
of the Scottish Bard. On the evening of the 
25th of July, the remains of Burns were re- 
moved from his house to the Town-Hall, and 
the funeral took place on the succeeding day. 
A party of the volunteers, selected to perform 
the military duty in the church-yard, stationed 
themselves in the front of the procession, with 
their arms reversed ; the main body of the 
corps surrounded and supported the coffin, on 
which were placed the hat and sword of their 
friend and feilow-soldier ; the numerous body 
of attendants ranged themselves in the rear ; 
while the Fencibie regiments of infantry and 
cavalry lined the streets from the Town-Hall 
to the burial-ground in the Southern church- 
yard, a distance of more than half a mile. 
ihe whole process : on moved forward to that 
sublime and affecting strain of music, the 
Dead March in Saul : and three volleys fired 
over his grave, marked the return of Burns to 
his parent earth ! 'Ihe spectacle was in a high 
degree grand and solemn, and accorded with 



* The particulars respecting the illness and 
death of Burns were obligmgly furnished 
by Dr Maxwell, the physician who attended 



53 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



the general sentiments of sympathy and sorrow 
■which the occasion had called forth. 

It was an affecting circumstance, that on 
the morning of the day of her husband's fune- 
ral, .Mrs Burns was undergoing the pains of 
labour, and that, during the solemn service we 
have just been describing, the posthumous son 
of our poet was born. fhis infant boy, who 
received the name of Maxwell, was not destined 
to a long life. lie has already become an 
inhabitant of the s-me grave with'his celebrated 
father- The t\>ur other children of our poet, 
all sons (the eldest at that time about ten 
years of age) yet survive, and give every pro- 
mise of pruuenee and virtue tUat can be ex- 
pected from their tender vears. They remain 
under the care of their affectionate mother in 
Dumfries, and are enjoying the means of edu- 
catioa which the excellent schools of that town 
afford : the teachers of which, in their conduct 
to the children of Burns, do thesis* ; ; grea 
honour. On this occasion, the name of Mr 
Wtiyie deserves to be particularly mentioned, 
himself a poet as well as a man of science. * 

Burns died in great poverty ; but the inde- 
pendence of his spirit, and the exemplary pru- 
dence of his wire, had preserved him from 
debt. He had received from his poems a clear 
profit of about nine hundred pounds. Of this 
sjm, the part expended on his library (which 
was far from extensive) and in the humble 
furniture of his house, remained; and obliga- 
tions were found for two hundred pounds 
advanced by hi.n to the assistance of those to 
whom he was united by the ties of blood, and still 
more bj thos= of esteem and affection. When 
it is considered, that his expenses in Ediu. 



the Rxeise was 
and never rose 
that his family v 






a jonri 



thai 



, could not 



t lileral 



stances were so poor, or that, as bis health 
decayed, his proud and feeling heart sunk under 
the secret consciousness of indigence, and the 
apprehensions of absolute want. Yet poverty 
never bent the spirit of Burns to any pecuniary 
meanness. Neither c'jicauery ncr sordidness 
ever appeared in his conduct. He carried h s 
disregard of money to a blameable excess. 
Even in the midst of distress he bore himself 
loftily to the world, and received with a jealous 
reluctance every offer of friendly assistance. 
His printed poems had procured hiai great 
celebrity, and a just and fair recompense for 
the latter offsprings of his pen might have 
produced him considerable emolument. la 
the year Ko'd, the Editor of a London news- 
paper, high in its character for l.terature, and 
independence of sentiment, made a proposal 
to him that he should furnish ihem, once a- 
•week, with an article for their poetical depart- 
ment, and receive from them a recompense of 
fifty-two guineas per annum; an offer wh;?ii 
the pride of genius disdained to accept. Yet 
he hid for several years furnished, and was at 
that time furnishing, the Museum of Johnson 
with his beautiful .vrics, w.thou. fee or regard, 



* The author of SV Gordon's WeU. a poem ; 
and of A Tribute lo the Memory tfB :.=. 



and waj obstinately refusing all recompense 
for his assistance to the greater work of Mr 
Thomson, which the justice and generosity of 
that gentlemen was pressing upon him. 

The seQse of his poverty, and of the ap- 
proaching distress of his infant family, pressed 
heavily on Burns as he lay on the bed" of death. 
Yet he alluded to his indigence, at times, with 
something approaching to his wonted gaiety. 
— " What business," said he to Dr .Maxwefl, 
who attended him with the utmost zeal, " has 
a physician to waste his lime on me ? I am a 
poor pigeon, not worth plucking. Alas! I 
have not feathers enough upon me to carry me 
to my grave." And wnen his reason was lost 
in delirium, his ideas ran in the same melan- 
choly train ; the horrors of a jaii were continu- 
ally present to his troubled imagination, and 
produced the mot affecting exclamations. 

As for some months prewous to his death 
he had been incapable of th; duties of his office, 
Burns had imagined that his salary was reduced 
one half, as is usual in such "case-;. The 
Board, however, to their honour, continued his 
full emolument* ; and Mr Graham of Fintra, 
hearing of his illness, though unacquainted 
with its dangerous nature, made an offer of his 
assistance towards procuring him the means of 
preserving his healtn. —"Whatever might be the 
faults of Burns, ingratitude was not of the num- 
ber Amongst his manuscripts, various proofs 

are found of the sense he entertained of Mr 
Graham's friendship, which delicacy towards 
that gentleman has induced us to suppress; 
and on the last occasion there is no doubt tuat 
his heart overflowed towards him, though he 
had no longer the power of expressing his 
Feeli ga.* 

On'the death of Burns, the inhabitants of 
Dumfries aud its neighbourhood opened a 
subscription for the support of his wife and 
family; and Mr Miller, Mr M'Murdo, Dr 
Maxwell, and Mr Syme, gentlemen of the 
first respectability, became trustees for the 
application of the money to its proper objects. 
The subscription was extended to oth-r parts 
of Scjtiand, and of England also, particularly 
London and Liverpool. By this means a 
suoi was raised amounting lo seven hundred 
pounds ; and thus the widow and children 
were rescued fiom immediate distress, and the 
most melancholy of the forebodings of Burns 
happily disappointed. It is true, this sura, 
though equal to iheir present support, is in- 
sufficient 10 secure them from future penury. 
Their hope in regard to futurity depends ou 
the favourable reception of those volumes from 
the public at large, in the promoting of which 
the candour aou humanity of the reader may 
induce him to lend bis assistance. 



form that indicated agility as well a 

His well-raised forehead, shaded with black 
curling hair, indicated extensive capacity. 
His ej es were large, dark, full of ardour and 
intelligence. H.s face was well formed; and 
his countenance uncommonly interesting aud 



* The letter to Mr Graham alluded to abov?, 
is dated on the 13th of July, and probably or- 
rived on the 15th. Burns became delirious on 
the Ktb or lS.h and di?d on the 21-t. 



BURNS. -LIFE. 



53 



expressive. His mode of dressing-, which was 
ofleu slovenly, and a certain fulness and bend 
in his shoulders, characteristic cf his original 
profession, disguised in some degree the natu- 
ral symmetry and elegance of his form. The 
external appearance of Burns was most strik- 
ingly indicative of the character of his mind, 
hio physiognomy had - — 



air of 

express io 



iriih a 



deep penetration, and of calm 
htfulness approaching to melancholy. 
There appeared in nis first manner and address, 
perfect ease and self-possession, but a stern 
and almost supercilious elevation, not, indeed, 
incompatible with openness and affability, 
which, however, bespoke a mind conscious of 

superior talents Strangers that supposed 

themselves approaching an Ayrshire peasant, 
who could make rhymes, and to whotn their 
notice was an honour, found themselves speed- 
ily overawed by the presence of a man who 
bore himself with dignity, and who possessed 
a singular power ot correcting forwardness and 
of repelling intrusion. But though jealous of 
the respect due to himself, Burns never enforced 
it where he saw it was willingly paid j ant 
though inaccessible to the approaches of prid 
he was open to every advance of kindness ana 
of benevolence. His dark and haughty coun- 
tenance easily relaxed into a look of good will, 
of pity, or of tenderness ; and, as the various 
emotions succeeded each other in his mind, as- 
sumed with equal ease the expression of the 
Lroadest humour, of the most extravagant mirth, 
of the deepest melancholy, or of the most sub- 
lime emotion. The tones of his voice happily 
corresponded with the expression of his fea- 
tures, and with the feelings ot his mind. "When 
to these endowments are added a rapid and 
distinct apprehension, a most powerful under- 
standing, and a happy command of language — 
of strength as well as brilliancy of expression — 
we shall be able to account for the extraordinary 
attractions of his conversation — for the sorcery 
which in his social parties he seemed to exert 
on all around him. In the company of women 
this sorcery was more especially apparent. 
Their presence charmed the fiend cf melancholy 
in his bosom, and awoke his happiest feelings ; 
it excited the powers of his fancy, as well as 
the tenderness of his heart ; and, by restrain- 
ing the vehemence and the exuberance of his 
language, at times gave to his manners the 
impression of taste, and even of elegance, 
which in the company of men they seldom pos- 
sessed. This influence was doubtless recipro- 
cal. A Scottish Lady, accustomed to the best 
society, declared with characteristic naivete, 
that no man's conversation ever carried her so 
completely off her feet as that of Burns ; and an 
English Lady, familiarly acquainted with se- 
veral of the most distinguished characters of 
the present times, assured the editor, that in 
the happiest of his social hours, there was a 
charm aLout Burns which she had never seen 
equalled. The charm arose not more from the 
power than the versatility of his genius. No 
languor could be felt in the society of a man 
who passed at pleasure from grave to gay, 
from the ludicrous to the pathetic, from the 
simple to the sublime ; who wielded ail his 
faculties with equal strength and ease, and 
never failed to impress the offspring of his fancy 
with the stamp of his understanding, 4 



This, indeed, is to represent Burns in his 
happiest phasis. In large and mixed parties, 
he was often silent and dark, sometimes fierce 
and overbearing ; he was jealous of the proud 
man's scorn, jealous to an extreme of the inso- 
lence of wealth, and prone to avenge, even on 
its innocent possessor, the partiality of fortune. 
By nature kind, brave, sincere, and in a singu- 
lar degree compassionate, he was on the other 
hand proud, irascible, and vindictive. H>9 
virtues and his failings had their origin in the 
extraordinary sensibility of his mind, and 
equally partook of the chills and glows of senti- 
ment. His friendships were liable to interrup- 
tion from jealou=y or disgust, and his enmities 
died away under the influence of pity or self- 
accusation. His understanding was equal to 
the other powers of his mind, and his deliberate 
opinions were singularly candid and just; but, 
like other men of great and irregular genius, 
the opinions which he delivered in conversation 
were often the offspring of temporary feelings, 
and widely different from the calm decisions of 
his judgment. This was not merely true re- 
specting the characters of others, but in regard 
to some of the most important points of human 
speculation. 

On no subject did he give a more striking; 
proof of the strength of his understanding than 
in the correct estimate he formed of himself. 
He knew his own failings; he predicted their 
consequence; the melancholy forecoding was 
never long absent from hi^ mind; yet his pas- 
sions carried him down the stiearn of error, 
and swept him over the precipice he saw di- 
rectly in his course. The fatal defect in his 
character lay in the comparative weakness of 
his volition, that superior faculty of the mind, 
which governing the conduct according to the 
dictates of the understanding, alone entitles it 
to be denominated rational; which is the pa- 
rent of fortitude, patience, and self-denial ; 
which, by regulating and combining human 
exertions, may be said to have affected all that 
is great in the works of man, in literature, in 
science, or in the face of nature. The occupa- 
tions of a pott are not calculated to strengthen 
the governing powers of the mind, or to weak 
en that sensibility which requires perpetual 
control, since it gives birth to the vehemence 
of passion as well as to the higher powers cf 
imagination. Unfortunately the favourite oc- 
cupations of genius are calculated to increase 
all its peculiarities ; to nourish that lofty pride, 
which disdains the littleness of prudence, and 
the restrictions of order ; and, by indulgence, 
to increase that sensibility, which, in the 
present form of our existence, is scarcely 
compatible with peace or happiuess, even 
when accompanied with the choicest gifts of 
fortune. 

It is observed by one who was a friend and 
associate of Burns, * and who has contemplated 
and explained the system of animated nature, 
that no sentient being, with mental powers 
greatly superior to those of men, could possibly 
live and be happy in this world. — " If such a 
being really existed, ' ' continues lie, " his misery 
would be extreme. With senses more delicate 
and refined ; with perceptions more acute and 



I * Smellie— See his Philosophy of Ac/arc J 
I History, Vol. h p. 526. 



M 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



penetrating ; with a teste so exquisite that the 
objects around him would by no means gratify 
it: obliged to feed on nourishment too gross 
for his frame ; he must he tern only to be 
miserable, and the ctntiuuationof his existence 
would be utterly impossible. Even in our 
present condition, tLe sameness and the insipi- 
dity of objects acd pursuits, the futility of 
pleasure, and the infinite sources of excru- 
ciating pain, are supported with great difii- 
culty by cultivated and refined minds. In- 
crease cur sensibilities, continue the same ob- 
jects and situation, and no man could hear to 

Thus it appear?, that cur powers of sensa- 
lion, as weil as all cur other powers, ere 
adapted to the scene of cur existence; that 
they are limited in mercy, as well as in wis- 

Ihe speculations of Ki Smellie are not to 
be considered as the dreams cf a theorist ; they 
weie probably founded en sad experience. 
The being he supposes, " with senses more de- 
licate and refined, with perceptions more acute 
and penetrating," is to be found in real life. 
He is cf the temperament cf genius, end per- 
haps a poet. Is there, thtn, no remedy for 
this inordinate sensibility ? Are there no means 
by which the happiness" of one so constituted 
by nature may be consulted ? Perhaps it will 
he found, that regular aid constant occupation, 
irksome though it may at first be, is the true 
remedy. Occupation in which the powers c" 
the understanding are exercised, will diminisl 
the force of external impressions, and keep thi 
imagination under restraint. 

lhat the bent of every man's mind shculd 
be followed in his education and in his destina- 
tion in life, is a maxim which has been often 
repeated, but which cannot he admitted with- 
out many restrictions. It may be generally 
true when applied to weak minds, which, being 
capable of little, must be encouraged and 
strengthened in the feeble impulses by which 
that little is produced, t'ut where indulgent 
nature has bestowed her gifts with a liberal 
hand, the very reverse of this maxim ought fre- 
quently to he the role of conducr. In minds of 
a higher order, the object of instruction and of 
discipline is very often to restrain rather than to 
impel ; to curb the impulses cf imagination 
that the passions also may be kept under cc 
trol.* Hence the advantages, even in a lr 
ral point of view, of studies of a severe natui 



* Quinctilian discusses the important ques- 
tion, whether the bent of the individual's ge- 
nius should be followed in his education {an 
eecun-iam eui quisque ingenii docenaus sit ?.a~ 
turam), chiefly, indeed, with a reference to the 
orator, but in a way that admits of very gene- 
ral application. His conclusions coincide very- 
much with ihcse of the text. An rere lie- 
crates mm de Efhoro atque Theopnmpo sicjndi- 
caret, ut alteri frenis, alteri calcaribus opus 
esse aiceret ; aut in Mo lenticre taiditate-m, aut 
in Mo feme prcccipiii ccucitatic?itm aajuva/i- 
dum decendo existimavit ? turn alttrum (Uterine 
natura miscen-lum artitraretur. Imttcilis ta. 
men ingenue sane sic otsequendum sit, ut tan. 
turn in id quo vecat natura, dixanlur. Ita 
inim, quod tolum poseunt, melius efficient.— 
Jnstii. Orator, lib. ii. 9, 



which, while they iufcrm the understanding* 
employ the volition, that regulating power of 
the n.ir.o, which, like all other faculties, is 
strengthened by exercise, and on the supericr- 
ity of which, virtue, happiness, and honour- 
able fame, are wholly dependent. Hence a;to 
the advantage cf regular and constant applica- 
tion, which aids the voluntary power by the 
production of habits so necessary to the sup- 
port of order and virtue, and so difScult to be 
iormed in the temperament cf genius. 

The man who is so endow eu and so regu. 
lated, may pursue his course with confidence 
in almost any of the various w alks of life w bich, 
choice or accident shall open to him ; and pro- 
viced he employs the talents he has cultivated, 
may hope lor such imperfect happiness, and 
such limited success, as are reasonably expect- 
ed from human exertions. 

The pie-eminence among men, which pro- 
cures personal respect, and which terminates 
in lasting reputation, is seldom or never ob- 
tained by the excellence of a single faculty of 
mind. Experience teaches us, that it has been 
acquired by those only who have possessed 
the comprehension ana the energy of general 
talents, aud who have regulated their applica- 
tion, in the line which choice, or perhaps acci- 
dent may ha\e determined, by the dictates of' 
their jvifgment. Imagination is supposed, and; 
with justice, to be the leading faculty of the 
poet. Eut what poet has stood the test cf 
time by the force of this single faculty '{ \* ho 
does not see that Homer and Shakspeare ex- 
celled the rest cf their species in understand- 
ing as well as in imagination ; that they wtie 
pre-eminent in the highest species of know- 
ledge- the knowledge cf the nature and char- 
acter of man ? On the other hand, the ialent 
of ratiocinaticn is more especially requisite to 
the cialor; hut no man ever obtained the 
palm of oratory, even by the highest excellence 
in this single talent, who dees not perceive thtt 
Demosthenes and Cicero were not more happy 
in their addresses to the reason, than in their 
appeals to the passions ? Ihey knew, that to 
excite, to agitate, and to delight, are among 
the most potent arts of pel suasion ; and they 
enforced their impression on the understanding, 
by their command cf all the .sympathies of the 
heart. These observations might he extended 
to other walks cf life. He who has the facul- 
ties fitted to excel in poetry, has the faculties 
which, duly governed and Differently directed, 
might lead to pre-eminence in other, and, as far 
as respects himself, perhaps in happier destina- 
tions. 1 he talents necessary to the construction 
of an Iliad, under difierent discipline and appli- 
cation, might have led armies to victory, or 
kingdoms to prosperity ; might have wielded 
the thunder cf eloquence, or discovered and 
enlarged the sciences that constitute the pew er, 
and improve the condition of cur species.f 



+ The reader must not suppose it is contended 
that the same individual ccuict have excelled in 
all these directions. A certain degree of in- 
struction and practice is necessary to excel* 
lence in every one, and life is too short to 
admit of one man, however great bis talents, 
acquiring this in all of them. It is only assert- 
ed, that the same talents differently applied, 
might have succeeded in o^ eve, though per* 



BURNS. -LIFE. 



55 






haps, not equally well in each. And, after all, 
this position requires certain limitations, which 
the reader's candour and judgment will supply. 
In supposing that a great poet might have 
made a great orator, the physical qualities 
necessary to oratory are presupposed. In sup- 
posing that a great orator might have made a 
great poet, it is a necessary condition, that he 
should have devoted himself to poetry, and that 
he should have acquired a proficiency in metrical 
numbers which by patience and attention may 
be acquired, though the want of it has embar- 
rassed and chilled many of the first efforts of 
true poetical genius. In supposing that Homer 
might have led armies to victory, more indeed 
is assumed than the physical qualities of a gene- 
ral. To these must be added that hardihood of 
mind, that coolness in the midst of difficulty 
and danger, which great poets and orators are 
found sometimes, but not always, to possess. 
The nature of the institutions of Greece and 
Rome produced more instances of single indi- 
viduals who excelled in various departments of 
active and speculative life, than occur in 
modern Europe, where the employments of 
men are subdivided. Many of the greatest 
warriors of antiquity excelled in literature and 
in oratory. That they had the minds of great 
poets, a'so will be admitted., when the qualities 
are justly appreciated which are necessary to 
excite, combine, and command the active ener- 
gies of a great body of men, to rouse that enthu- 
siasm wh.ch sustains fatigue, hunger, and the 
inclemencies of (he elements, and which tri- 
umphs over the fear of death, the most power- 
ful instinct of our nature. 

The authority of Cicero may be appealed to 
in favour of the close connection between the 
poet and the orator. Est enim fiuitimus eratori 
voeta, numeris adstriclior pau'o, verboriim autem 
licenlia liberior, cjc. De Orator, lib. i. c. 16. 
See also, lib. iii. c. 7. —It is true the example 
of Cicero may be quoted against his opinion. 
His attempts in verse, which are praised by 
Plutarch, did not meet the approbation of 
Juvenal, or of many others. Cicero probably 
did not take sufficient time to learn the art of 
the poet : but that he had the afflatus necessary 
to poetical excellence, may be abundantly 
proved from his compositions in prose. On 
the other hand, nothing is more clear, than 
that, in the character of a great poet, all the 
mental qualities as -an orator are included. It 
is said by Quinctilian of Homer, Omnibus elo- 
quent ice parlibus exenplum et ortuin dedit. Lib. 
i. 47. The study of Homer is therefore re- 
commended to the orator, as of the first impor- 
tance. Of the two sublime poets in our < 
language, who are scarcely inferior to Hot 
Shakspeare, and Milton, a similar recomn 
dation may be given. How much an acqu 
tance with them has availed the great or 
who is now the pride and ornament of 
English bar, need not be mentioned, nor need 
we point out by name a character which may 
be appealed to with confidence when we are 
contending for the universality of genius. 

The identity, or at least the great similarity 
of the talents necessary to excellence in poetry, 
oratory, painting, and war, will be admitted 



them info fu'l exertion are rarer still. But 
safe and salutary occupations may be found for 
men of genius in every direction, while the 
useful and ornamental arts remain to be culti- 
ated, while the sciences remain to be studied 
.nd to be extended, and the principles of 
cience to be applied to the correction and im- 
irovement of art. Iu the temperament of sen- 
ibility, which is in truth the temperament of 
reneral talents, the principal object of discip- 
ine and instruction is. as has already been 
nentioned, to strengthen the self-command; 
and tliis may be promoted by the direction of 
the studies, more effectually "perhaps than has 
been generally understood. 

If these observations be founded in truth, 
!hey may lead to practical consequences of some 
importance. It has been too much the custom 
to consider the possession of poetical talents as 
excluding the possibility of application to the 
severer branches of study, and as in some de- 
gree incapacitating the possessor from attaining 
those habits, and from bestowing that attention, 
which are necessary to success in the details 

life. It has been common for persons conscious 
of such talents, to look with a sort of disdain, 
on other kinds of intellectual excellence, and 

absolved from these rules of prudence by 
which humbler minds are restricted. They ara 
too much disposed to abandon themselves to their 
own sensa ijns, and io sutler life to pass away 
without regular exertion, or settled purpose. 

But though men of genius are generally 
prone to indolence, with them indolence and 
unhuppiness are in a more especial manner al- 
lied. The unbidden splendours of imagination 
may indeed at times irradiate the gloom which 
inactivity produces ; but such visions, though 
bright, are transient, and serve to cast the re- 
alises of life into deeper shade. In bestowing 
great talents, Nature seems very generally to 
have imposed on the possessor the necessity of 
exertion, if he would escape wretchedness. 
Better for him than sloth, toils the most pain- 
ful, or adventures the most hazardous. Hap- 
pier to him than idleness, were the condition 
of the peasant, earning with incessant labour 



by some, who will be inclined to dispute the 
extension of the position to science or natural 
knowledge. On this occasion I may quote the 
following observations of Sir William Jones, 
whose own example will, however, far exceed 
in weight the authority of his precepts. 
" Abul Clo had so nourishing a reputation, 
that several persons of uncommon genius were 
ambitious of learning the art of poetry from s 



able 



His 



>-t ilk; : 



=cho- 



Feleki and Khakar . 
less eminent for their Persian compositions, 
than for their skill in every branch of pure and 
mixed mathematics, and particularly in astro- 
nomy ; a striking proof that a sublime poet 
may become master of any kind of learning 
which he chooses to profess ; since a fine 
imagination, a lively wit, an easy and copious 
style, cannot possibly obstruct the acquisition 
of any science whatever ; but must necessarily 
assist him in his studies, and shorten his 
labour." Sir WLliam Jones's Works, Vol. 
II. p. 317. 



DIAMOND CABINET LIURART. 



his scanty food ; or that at the sailor, though 
hanging ou the yard-arm and wrestling with 
ihe hurricane. 

These observations might be amply illustrat- 
ed by the biography of men of genius cf every 
denomination, and more especially by the bio- 
graphy of the poets. Of this last description 
of men, few seem to have enjoyed the usual 
portion of happiness that falls to the lot of hu- 
manity, those excepted who have cultivated 
poetry as an elegant amusement in the hours 
of relaxation from other occupations, ot 
small number who have engaged with success 
in the greater or more arduous attempts of th« 
muse, iu which all the faculties of the rnind 
have been fully aud permanently employed. 
Even tasie, virtue, and comparative independ- 
ence, do not seem capable of bestowing, on 
men of genius, peace and tranquillity, w ithout 
such occupation as may give regular and health- 
ful exercise to the faculties of body and mind. 
The amiable Sheustcue has left us the records 
of his imprudence, of his indolence, and of his 
unhappiuess, amidst the shades of the Leas- 
x o\ves;* aud the virtues, the learning, and the 
genius of Gray, equal to the loftiest attempt ot 
the epic muse, failed to procure him, ia the aca- 
demic bowers of Cambridge, that tranquillity 
and that respect which less fastidiousness oi 
taste, and greater constancy aud vigour of exer- 
tion, would have doubtless obtained. 

It is more necessary that men of genius 
should be aware of the importance of self-com- 
mand, and of exertion, because their indolence 
is peculiarly exposed, not merely to unhappi- 
uess, but to diseases of mind, and to errors 
conduct, which are generally fatal. This inte 



subje 
: but i 



dese 






Villi , 



it content i 

or two cursory remarks. Relief is sometimes 
sought from the melancholy of indolence in 
practices, which for a time soothe and gratify 
the sensations, but which in the end involve 
the sufferer in darker gloom. To command 
the external circumstances by which happi 
is affected, is not in human power : but there 
are various substances in nature which operate 
on the system of the nerves, so as to give a fic- 
titious gaiety to the ideas of imagination, and 
to alter the* effect of the external impressions 
which we receive. Opium is chiefly employed 
lor this purpose by the disciples of Mahomet, 
and the inhabitants of Asia ; but alcohol, the 
principle cf intoxication iu vinous aud spiritu- 
ous liquors, is preferred in Europe, and is uni- 
versally used in the Christian world, f Under 



f There are a great number of other sub- 
stauces which may be considered under this 
point oi view — Tobacco, tea, and coffee, are of 
the number. These substances essentially 
differ from each other in their qualities : and 
an inquiry into the particular effects of each ou 
the health, morals, and .happiness, of tho^e 
■who use them, would be curious and useful. 
Ihe effects of wine and of opium on the tem- 
perament' of sensibility, the J^ditor intended to 
have discussed in this place at some length ; 
but he fouud the subject too professional to be 
introduced with propriety. The difficulty of 



the various wounds to which indolent sensibi- 
lity is exposed, and under the gloomy appre- 
hensions respecting futurity to which" it is so 
often a prey, how strong is the temptation to 
have recourse to an antidote by which the pain 
of these wounds is suspended, by which the 
heart is exhilarated, ideas of hope and of hap- 
piness are excited iu the mind, and the forms 
of external nature clothed with new beauty 1 — 

Elysium opens round, 
A pleasing frenzy buoys the lighten'd soul, 
And sauguine hopes dispel your ileeting care ; 
Aud what was difficult, and what was dire, 
Yields to your prowess, and superior stars : 
The happiest of you all that e'er were mad, 
Or are, or shall Ue, could this folly last. 
But soon your heaven is gone ; a heavier 

gloom 
Shuts o'er your head 



Morning comes ; your cares return 

With tenfold rage. An anxious stomach well 
May be endured : so may the throbbing head : 
But such a dim delirium, such a dream 
Involves you ; such a dastardly despair 
Unmans your soul, as mada'niug Pentheiu 

felt, 
When, baited round Cithffiron's cruel sides, - 
He saw two suus and double Thebes ascend. 
Armstrong's Art of Preserving Health, b. 
iv. 1. 163. 

Such are the pleasures and the pains of in- 
toxication, as they occur in the temperament of 
sensibility, described by a genuine poet, with a 
degree of truth and energy which nothing but 
experience could have dictated. There are, 
indeed, some individuals of this temperament 
on whom wine produces no cheering influence. 
On some, even in very moderate quantities, 
its effects are painfully irritating;* in large 
doses it excites dark and melancholy ideas ; 
and in doses still larger, the- fierceness of in- 
sanity itself. Such men are happily exempted 
from a temptation, to which experience leaches 



abandoning any of these narcotics, (if we may 
so term them,) when inclination is strengthen 
ed by habit, is well known. Johnson, in his 
distresses, had experienced the cheering but 
treacherous influence of wine, and, by a power- 
ful effort, abandoned it. He was obliged, 
however, to use tea as a substitute, and this 
was the solace to which he constantly had re- 
course under his habitual melancholy. The 
praises of wine form many of the most beauti- 
ful lyrics of the poets of Greece and Rome, 
and modern Europe. Whether opium, which 
produces visions still more ecstatic, has been 
the theme of the eastern poets, I do not know, 
ae is taken in small doses at a time, in 
pany, where, for a time, it promotes har- 
ly and social affection. Opium is swallow- 
ed by the Asiatics in full doses at once; aud the- 
inebriate retires to the solitary indulgence of 
his delirious imaginations. Hence the wine- 
drinker appears in a superior light to the im- 
biber of opium, a distinction which he owes 
more to the form, than to the quality of kia 
liquor. 



BURNS. —L1FS 



us the finest dispositions often yield, and the 
influence of which, when strengthened by habit, 
it is a humiliating truth, that die most power- 
ful minds have not been able to resist. 

It is the more necessary for men of genius 
to be on their guard against the habitual use of 
wine, because it is apt to st?al on them insen- 
sibly ; and because the temptation to excess 
usually presents itself to them in their social 
hours, when they a»s alive only to warm and 
generous emotions, and when prudence and 
moderation are of .en contemned as selfishness 
and timidity. 

It is the more necessary for them to guard 
against excess in the use of wine, because on 
them its effects are, physically and morally, in 
an especial manner, injurious. In proportion 
to its stimulating inBueiice on the system (on 
which the pleasurable sensations depend), is 
the debility that ensues ; a debility that destroys 
digestion, and terminates in habitual fever, 
dropsy, jaundice, paralysis, or insanity. As the 
strength of the body decays, the volition fails; 
in proportion as the sensations are soothed and 
gratiued, the sensibility increases; and morbid 
sensibility is the parent of indolence, because, 
while it impairs the regulating power of the 
mind, it exaggerates all the obstacles to exer- 
tion. Activity, perseverance, and self-com- 
mand, become more and more difficult, and the 
great purposes of utility, patriotism, or of 
honourable ambition, which had occupied the 
imagination, die away in fruitless resolutions, 
or in feeble efforts. 

To apply these observations to the subject 
of our memoirs, would be a useless as well as a 
painful task. It is, indeed, a duty we owe to 
the living, not to allow our admiration of great 
genius, or even our pity for its unhappy des- 
tiny, to conceal or disguise its errors. But 
there are sentiments of respect, and even of 
tenderness, with which this duty should be 
performed ; there is an awful sanctity which 
invests the mansions of the dead; "and let 
those who moralize over the graves of their 
contemporaries, reflect with humility on their 
own errors, nor forget how soon they may 
themselves require the candour and the sym- 
pathy they are called upon to bestow. 



Soon after the death of Burns, the following 
article appeared in the Dumfries Journal, from 
whish it was copied into the Edinburgh news- 
papers, and into various other periodical pub- 
lications. It is from the elegant pen of- a lady 
already alluded to in the course of these me- 
moirs,* whose exertions for the family of our 
bard, in the circles of literature and fashion 
in which she moves, have done her so much 
honour. 

" It is not probable that the late mournful 
event, which is likely to be felt severely in the 
literary world, as well as in the circle of pri- 
vate friendship which surrounded our admired 
poet, should be unattended wi.h the usual pro- 
fusion of posthumous anecdotes, memoirs, &c. 
that commonly spring up at the death of every 
rare and celebrated personage. I shall not at- 
tempt to enlist with the numerous corps of bio- 



* §eep, 51. 



graphers, who, it is probable, may, without 
possessing his genius, arrogate to themselves 
the privilege of criticising the character or 
writings of Mr Burns. ' The inspiring man- 
tle' thrown over him by that tutelary muse 
who first found him, like the prophet Elisha, 
' at his plough"! has been the portion of few, 
may be the portion of fewer still ; and if it is 
true that men of genius have a claim in their 
literary capacities to the legal right of the Bri- 
tish citizen in a court of justice, that of being 
tried oidy by his peers, (I borrow here an ex- 
pression I have frequently heard Burns himself 
make use of,) God forbid I should, any mote 
than the generality of other people, assume the 
flattering and peculiar privilege of silting upon 
his jury. But the intimacy of our acquaintance 
for several years past, may perhaps justify my 
presenting to the public a few of those ideas 
and observations I have had the opportunity 
of forming, and which, to the day that closed 
for ever the scene of his happy qualities and of 
his errors, I have never bad the smallest cause 
to deviate in, or to recall. 

" It will be the misfortune of Bums' reputa- 
tion, in the records of literature, not only to 
future generations and to foreign countries, but 
even with his native Scotland and a number of 
his contemporaries, that he has been regarded 
as a poet, and nothing but a poet. It muot 
not be supposed that 1 consider this title as a 
trivial one : no person can be more penetrated 
with the respect due to the wreath bestowed 
by the muses than myself; and much certainly 
is due to the merit of a self-taught bard, de- 
prived of the advantages of a classical educa- 
tion, and the intercourse of minds congenial 
to his own, till that period of life, when 
his native fire had already blazed forth in all 
its wild graces of genuine simplicity and en- 
ergetic eloquence of sentiment. But the fact 
is, that eveu when all his honours are yielded 
to him, Burns will perhaps be found to move 
in a sphere less splendid, less dignified, 
and, eveu in his own pastoral style, less attrac- 
tive, than several other writers have done; aud 
that poetry was (I appeal to all who had the 
advantage of being personally acquainted with 
him) actually not his forte. If oiuers have 
climbed more successfully to the heights of Par- 
nassus, none certainly ever outshone Burns in 
the charms — the sorcery I would almost call 
it, of fascinating conversation ; the spontaneous 
eloquence of social argument, or the unstudied 
poignancy of brilliant repartee. His personal 
endowments were perfectly correspondent with 
the qualifications of his mind. His form was 
manly; his action energy itself; devoid, in a 
great measure, however, of those graces, of that 
polish, acquired only in the refinement of so- 
cieties, where in early life he had not the op- 
portunity to mix ; but where, such was the 
irresistible power of attraction that encircled 
him, though his appearance and u 



| «' The Poetic genius of my country found 
me, as the prophetic bard Elijah did Elisha— 
at the Ploj?h ; and threw her inspiring mantle 
over me. She bade me sing the loves, the joys, 
the rural scenes and rural pleasures of my native 

soil, in my native tongue," &c. Burns' 

Prefatory Address to the Noblemen and Gentle- 
men of ike Caledonian guni. 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



always peculiar, he never failed to delight and 
to excel. His figure certainly bore the authen- 
tic impress of his birth aud original station in 
life ; it seemed raiher moulded by nature for 
the rough exercise of agriculture, than the 
gentler cultivation of the belles Litres. Hi* 
features were stamped with the haruy charac- 
ter of independence, and the firmness of con- 
scious, though not arrogant pre-eminence. I 
believe no man was ever gifted with a larger 
portion of the vivida vis animi; the animated 
expressions of his countenance were almost pe- 
culiar to himself. The rapid lightnings of his 
eye were always the harbingers of some flash 
of genius, whether they darted the fiery glances 
of insulted and indignant superiority, or beamed 
with the impassioned sentiment of fervent aud 
impetuous atiections. His voice alone could 
improve upon the magic of his eye ; sonorous, 
repiete with the finest modulations, it alter- 
nately captivated the ear with the melody of 
poetic numbers, the perspicuity of nervous 
reasoning, or the ardent sallies of enthusiastic 
patriotism. The keenness of satire was, I 
am almost at a loss whether to say his forte or 
his foible; for though nature had endowed 
hi in with a portion of~the most pointed excel- 
lence in that ' perilous gift, ' he suffered it too 
often to be the vehicle of personal, and some- 
times unfounded animosities. It was not only 
that sportiveuess of humour, that " unwary 
pleasantry, ' which Sterne has described to us 
v\ ith touches so conciliatory ; but the darts of 
ridicule were frequently Directed as the caprice 
of the instant suggested, or the altercations of 
parties or of persons happened to kindle the 
restlessness of his spirit into interest or aver- 
sion. This was not, however, unexcep:ionably 
the case, his wit (which is no unusual matter 
indeed) had always the start of his judgment, 
and would lead him to the indulgence of raillery 
uniformly acute, but often unaccompanied by 
the least desire to wound. The suppression 
of an arch and full pointed bon mot, from the 
dread of injuring its object, the sage of Zurich 
very properly classes as a virtue ' only to be 
sought for in the calendar of saints ; ' if so, 
Burns must not be dealt with unconscientious^ 
for being rather deficient in it. He paid the 
forfeit of his talents as dearly as any one could 
do. * 'Twas no extravagant arithmetic to say 
of him, as of Yorick, that for every ten jokes 
he got a hundred enemies :' and much allow- 
ance should be made by a candid mind for the 
splenetic warmth of a spirit ' which distress 
had often spited with the world, ' and which, 
unbounded in its intellectual sallies and pur- 
suits, continually experienced the curbs imposed 
by the waywardness of his fortune. The viva- 
city of his wisues. aud temper was indeed 
checked by constant disappointments, which 
sat heavy on a heart that acknowledged the 
ruling passion of independence, without having 
ever been placed beyond the grasp of penury. 
His soul was never languid or inactive, aud his 
genius was extinguished only with the last 
sparks of retreating life. His passions render- 
ed him, according as they disclosed themselves 
in affection or antipathy, the object of enthusi- 
astic attachment, or of decided enmity ; for he 
possessed none of that negative insipidity of 
character, whose love might be regarded with 
indifference, or whose resentment could be 
considered with contempt. In this it should 



seem the temper of his companions took the 
tincture from his own ; for he acknowledged 
in the universe but two classes of objects, those 
of adoration the most fervent, or of aversion 
the most uncontrollable ; and it has been fre- 
quently asserted of him, that, unsusceptible of 
indifference, often hating where he ought to 
have despised, he alternately opened his heart, 
and poured forth all the treasures of his un- 
derstanding to such as were incapable of appre- 
ciating the homage, and elevated to the privi- 
leges of an adversary, some who were unquali- 
fied in talent, or by nature, for the honour of 
a contest so distinguished. 

" It is ^aid that the celebrated Dr Johnson 
professed to "love a good hater,'— a tempera- 
ment that had singuiarly adapted him to cher- 
ish a prepossession in favour of our bird, who 
perhaps fell little short even of the surly Doc- 
tor in this qualification, as long as the disposi- 
tion to ill-will continued ; but the fervour of 
his passions was fortunately tempered by their 
versatility. He was seldom, never indeed im- 
placable in his resentments, and sometimes, it 
has teen alleged, not inviolably steady in his; 
engagements of friendship. Much indeed has 
been said of his inconstancy and caprice : but 
I am inclined to believe, they originated less 
from a levity of sentiment, than from an im- 
petuosity of feeling, that rendered him prompt 
to taie umbrage ; and his sensations of pique, 
where he fancied he had discovered the traces 
of unkindness, scorn, or neglect, took their 
measure of asperity from the overflowings of 
the opposite sentiment which preceded them, 
and which seldom failed to regain its ascenden- 
cy in his bosom on the return of calmer reflec- 
tion. He was candid and manly in the avowal 
of his errors, and his avoival was a reparation. 
His native jiurte never forsaking him a mo- 
ment, the value of a frank acknowledgment 
was enhanced tenfold tow ards a generous nnud, 
from its never being attended with servility. 
His mind, organized only for the stronger and 
more acute operation of the passions, was im- 
practicable to the efforts of superciliousness 
that would have depressed it into humility, 
and equally superior to the encroachments of 
venal suggestions that might have led him into 
the mazes of hypocrisy. 

" It has been observed, that he was far from 
averse to the incense of flattery, and could re- 
ceive it tempered with less delicacy than might 
have been expected, as he seldom transgressed 
in that way himself ; where he paid a compli- 
ment, it might indeed claim the power of in- 
toxication, as approbation from him was always 
an honest tribute from the warmth and sincerity 
of his heart. It has been sometimes repre- 
sented, by those who it should seem had a view 
to detract from, though they could not Lope 
whoily to obscure tnat native brilliancy, which 
the powers of this extraordinary man had in- 
variably bestowed on every thing that came 
from his lips or pen, that the history of the 
Ayrshire ploughboy was an ingenious fiction, 
fabricated for the purposes of obtaining the in- 
terests of the great, aud enhancing the merits 
of what in reality required no foil. The Cot- 
ter's Saturday Night, Tarn o'Shauter, aud the 
Mountain Daisy, besides a number of later 
productions, where the maturity of his genius 
: will be readily traced, and which will be given 
; to the public as soon as his friends have collected 



BURNS. - 

and arranged them, speak sufficiently for them- 
selves ; and had they fallen from a hand moie 
digniiied in the ranks of society than that of a 
peasant, they had perhaps bestowed as unusual 
a grace there, as even in the humbler shade of 
rustic inspiration from whence they really 
sprung. 

" To the obscure scene of Burns 's education, 
and to the laborious, though honourable sta- 
tion of rural industry, in which his parentage 
enrolled him, almost every inhabitant in the 
south of Scotland can give testimony. His 
only surviving brother, Gilbert Burns, now 
guides the ploughshare of his forefathers in 
Ayrshire, at a small farm near Ma-rchhue;* 
and our poet's e.dest son, (a 1-td of nine years 
of age, whose early dispositions already prove 
him to be the inheritor of his father '9 talents as 
well as indigence,) has been destined by his 
family to the humble employments of the 

" That Turns had received no classical edu- 
cation, and was acquainted with the (jieekand 
Roman authors only through the medium of 
translations, is a fact that can be indisputably 
proven. I have seldom seen him at a lo=s in 
conversation, unless where the dead languages 
and their writers were the subjects of discus- 
sion. Whin I have pressed him to tell me 
why he never took pains to acquire the Latin, 
in particular, a language which his happy me- 
mory had so soon enabled him to be masier of, 
he used only to reply with a smile, that he 
already knew all the Latin he desired to learn, 
and that was, omnia, ctiit.it umor ; a phrase, 
that from his writings aud most favourite pur- 
suits, it should undoubtedly stem lie wa 
thoroughly versed in ; but I really bell 
classical erudition extended little, if any, far- 
ther. 

«« The penchant Mr Burns had uniformly 
acknowledged for the festive pleasures of the 
table, and towards the fairer and softer obji 
of nature s creation, has been the rallying point 
where the attacks of his censors, both pious 
and moral, have been directed ; and to these, 
it must be confessed, he showed himself no 
stoic. His poetical pieces blend with alternate 
happiness of description, the frolic spirit of 
the joy-inspiring bowl, cr melt the heart to the 
tender and impassioned sentiments in which 
beauty always taught him to pour forth his 
own. But who would wish to reprove the 
failings he has consecrated with such lively 
touches of nature ? And where is the rugged 
moralist who will persuade us so far to ' chill 
the genial current of the soul, ' as to regret that 
Ovid ever celebrated his Corinna, or that Aua- 
creon sung beneath his vine ? 

«« I will not, however, undertake to be the 
apologist of the irregularities, even of a 1 
of genius, though 1 believe it is certainly 
derstood that genius ne\er was free of im 
larities, as that their absolution may in a great 
measure be justly claimed, since it is certain 
that the world had continued very stationary 
in its intellectual acquirements, had it 



* This very respectable and very superior 
man is now removed to Dumfriesshire. He 
rents lands on the estate of Clo = eburn, and is a 
tenaut of the venerable Dr Monteith. 
f This destination is now altered. 



decorums of the world, have been s 
seen to move hand in hand with genius, tha't 
some Have gone as far as to say, though there 
I cannot acquiesce, that they are even incom- 
patible : besides, the frailties that cast their 
shade over superior merit, =ire more conspicu- 
ously glaring, than where ihey a 






■'tj : 



1 the £ 



we are disturbed to see the dust ; the pebble 
may be soiled, and we never mind it. The 
eccentric intuitions of genius, tco often yield 
the soul to the wild effervescence of desires, 
always unbounded, and sometimes equally 
dangerous to the repose of others as fatal to its 
own. No wonder then, if virtue herself be 
sometimes lost in the blaze of kindling anima- 
tion, or that the calm monitions of reason were 
not found sufficient to fetter an imagination, 
which scorned the narrow limits and restrictions 
that would chain it to the level of ordinary 
minds. The child of nature, the child of sen- 
sibility, unbroke to the refrigerative precepts of 
philosophy, untaught always to vanquish the 
passions which were the only source of his 
frequent errors, Burns makes his own arlless 
apology in terms more forcible, than all the 
argumentatory vindications in the world could 
do, in one of his poems, where he delineates, 
with his usual simplicity, the progress of his 
mind, and its iirst expansion to the lessons of 
the tutelary muse. 

* I saw thy pulse's maddening play, 
AVild send thee Pleasure's devious way, 
Misled by Fancy's meteor ray. 



" I have already transgressed far beyond the 
bounds I had proposed to myself, on first 
committing to paper these sketches, which 
comprehend what at least I have been led to 
deem the leading features of Burns 's mind and 
character. A critique either literary or moral, 
I do not aim at ; mine is wholly fulfilled, if in 
these paragraphs I have been able to delineate 
any of those strong traits that distinguished 
him, of those talents which raised him from 
the plough, where he passed (he bleak morning 
of his life, weaving his rude wreaths of poesy 
with the wild field-flowers that sprung round 
his cottage, to that en\ iable eminence of literary 
fame, where Scotland will long cherish his 
memory with delight and gratitude; and 
proudly remember, that beneah her cold sky, 

that would have done honour to the geuial 
temperature of climes better adapted to cher- 
ishing its germs ; to the perfecting of those 
luxuriances, tha' warmth of fancy and colour- 
ing, in which he so eminently excelled. 

•* From several paragraphs I have noticed in 
the public prints, even since the idea of send- 
ing these thither was formed, I find private 
animosities are not yet subsided, and envy has 
net yet done her part. 1 still trust that honest 
fame will be affixed to Burns 's reputation, 
which he will be found to have merited by the 
candid of his countrymen; and where a kin- 
dred bosom is found that has been taught to 
glow with the fires that animated Burns, 



DIAMOND CAB1KET LIBRARY. 



should a recollection of the imprudences that 
sullied his br_ ? interpose, let 

aim remember at the same lime the iuir.erfec- 
tion of all human excellence ; and leave these 
inconsistencies which alternately exalted his 
nature to the seraph, and sunk il again into 
the man, to the tribunal which alone can 
investigate the laL^rinihs of the human heart — 

* Where they alike in trembling tope repose — 
The Losom of his father, and his Cod. ' 

Grai 't 
"Aunandale, Aug. 7, 17£(j. " 



After this account of the life and personal 
character of Burns, it may be expected that 
some inquiry should be made into his literary 
merits- It will not however Le necessary to 
eii'.cr very minutely into this investigation. If 
liction be, as some suppose, the soul of poetry, 
no one had ever less pretensions to the name of 
poet than Bums- '1 hough he has displayed 
great powers of imagination, yet the subjects on 
which he has written, are seldom, if ever, im- 
aginary ; his poems, as well as his letters, may 
be considered as the effusions of his sensibility, 
and the transcript of his own musings on tie 
real incidents of his humble life. If we add, 
that they also contain most happy delineations 
of the characters, manners, and scenery that 
presented themselves to his observation, we 
shall include almost all the subjects of his muse. 
His writings may therefore be regarded as af- 
fording a great part of the data on which our 
account of his personal character has been 
founded ; arid most of the observations we have 
applied to the man, are applicable, with little 
variation, to the poet. 

The impression of his birth, and of bis ori- 
ginal station iu life, was not more evident on 
his form and manners, than on his poetical 
productions. The incidents which form the 
subjects of his poems, though tome of them 
highly interesting, and susceptible of poetical 
imagery, axe incidents in the life of a peasant 
who takes no pains to disguise the lowliness of 
bis condition, or to throw into shade the cir- 
cumstances attending it, which more feeble or 
more a» tiheial minds would have endeavoured 

lion appears in the icrrnainn of ':■:* rhymes, j 

Las little of the pomp cr harmony cf modern 
versitealicn, Liid is iuueed, .o an Engiish ear, 
strange and uncouth. The greater part of his 
earlier poems are written in the dialect of bis 
country, which is obscure, if not unintelligible 
to Englishmen, and which, though it stili ad- 
heres more or less to the speech ot almost every 
Scotchman, all the polite and the ambitious are 
now endeavouring to banish from their tongues 
as well as their writings. The use of it in 
composition naturally therefore calls up ideas 
of vulgarity in the mind. These singularities 
ore increased by the character of the poet, wLo 
defights to express himself with a simplicity 
»hat approaches to nakedness, and with an un- 
measured energy that often alarms delicacy, 
and sometimes offends taste. Hence, in ap- 
proaching him, the trst impression is perhaps 
iepulsive: there is an air of coarseness about 



him, which is difficultly reconciled with our 
established notions of poetical excellence. 

As the reader, however, becomes better ac- 
quainted with the poet, the effects of his pecu- 
liciiiies lessen, lie perceives in his poems, 
even on the lowest subjects, expressions of 
Sentiment, and delineations of manners, which 
are highiy interesting. The scenery he de- 
scribes is tviuently taken from real life; the 
characters be introduces, and the incidents he 
reiites, have the impression of nature and 
truth. His humour, though wild and unbri- 
dled, is irresistibly amusing, and is so melimes 
heighiened in its effects bj tLe introduction cf 
emotions of tenderness, with which genuine 
humour so happily unites. Nor is this the ex- 
tent of his power. The leader, as he examines 
farther, discovers that the poet is not conlined 
to the descriptive, the humorous, or the pathe- 
tic : he is found, as occasion oilers, to rise 
with ease into the terrible and the sublime. 
Every where Le appears devoid of aitilice, 
performing what he attempts with little appa- 
rent effort ; and impressing on the offspring of 
his fat.cy the stamp of his unueritaucing. The 
reader, capable of forming a just estimate of 
poetical talents, discovers in these circumstan- 
ces marks of uncommon genius, and is willing 
to investigate more minutely its nature and its 
claim to originality. This last point we shall 
examine brst. 

That Burns had not the advantages of a 
classical education, or of any degree of acquain- 
tance with the Greek or Roman writers in their 
original dress, has appeared iu the history of 
his life. He aco,uirca, indeed, some know ledge 
of the Fiencb language, but it does not appear 
that he was ever much conversant in French 
literature, nor is there any evidence of his hav- 
ing derived any of his poetical stories from that 
source. >\ iih the English classics he became 
well acquainted iu the course of his life, and 
the effects of this acquaintance are observable 
in his latter productions ; but the character and 
style of his poetry were formed very early, and 
the model which he followed, in as far as he 
can be said to have had one, is to be sought for 
in the works of the poets who have written iu 
the Scottish dialect— in the works of such of 
them, more especially, as are familiar to the 
peasantry of Scotland. Some observations on 
these may form a proper introduction to a more 
particular examination of the poetry of Burns. 
'I he studies of the editor in this direction are 
indeed very recent and verv imperfect. Jt 
would Luve been imprudent for Lim to have 
entered on this subject at all, but for the kind- 
ness of Mi Ramsay cf Cchtertvre, wbose assis- 
tance he is proud to acknowleoge, and to whom 
the reader must ascribe whatever is of any value 
in the following imperfect sketch of literary 
compositions in the Scottish id.om. 

It is a circumstance not a little curious, and 
which does not .stem to be satisfactorily ex- 
plained, that in the thirteenth centurv, the 
language of the two Br.tish nations, if at all 
d.fiereut, differed only in d.aicct, the Gaelic in 
the one, l;ke the "\N elch a;.d Armcric in the 
other, being conlined to the mountainous dis- 
tricts.* The English under the Edwards, and 









BURXS.-UFE. 



CI 



tiie Scots under Wallace and Bruce, spoke the t 
same language. We may observe also, that in | 
Scotland the history ascends to a period nearly ! 
ns remote as in England. Barbour and Blind I 
Harry, James the Frst, Dunbar, L'ouglas, and I 
Lindsay, who lived in the fourteenth, fifteenth, j 
and sixteenth centuries, were coeval with the 
rather? of poetry in England ; nnd in the 
opinion of IVJr Wharton, not inferior to them | 
in genius or in composition. Though the | 
language of the two countries gradually devi- 
ated from each other during this period, yet 
the difference on the whole was not consider- 
able ; nor perhaps greater than between the 
different dialects of the different parts of Eng- 
land in our own time. 

At the death of James the Fifth, in 1542, 
the language of Scotland was in a flourishing 
condition, wanting only writers in prose equal 
to those in verse. Two circumstances, pro- 
pitious on the whole, operated to prevent this. 
The iirst was the passion of the Scots for 
composition in Latin ; and the second, the 
accession of James the Sixth to the English 
throne. It may easily be imagined, that if 
Buchanan had devoted his admirable talents, 
even in part, to the cultivation of his native 
tongue, as was done by the revivers of letters 
in Italy, he would have left compositions in 
that language which might have excited other 
men of genius to have followed his example,* 
and given duration to the language itself. The 
union of the two crowns in the person of 
James, overthrew all reasonable expectation of 
this kind. That monarch, seated on the Eng- 
lish throne, would no longer be addressed 
in the rude dialect in which the Scottish 
clergy had so often insulted his dignity. He 
encouraged Latin or English only, both of 
which he prided himself on writing with puri- 
ty, though he himself never could acquire the 
English pronunciation, but spoke with a Scot- 
tish idiom and intonation to the last. Scots- 
men of talents declined writing in their native 
language, which they knew was not acceptable 
to their learned and pedantic monarch ; and at 
a time when national prejudice and enmity 
prevailed to a great degree, they disdained to 
study the niceties of the English tongue, 
though of so much easier acquisition than a 
dead language. Lord Stirling and Drummond 
of Hawthornden, the only Scotsmen who 
wrote poetry in those times, were exceptions. 
They studied the language of England, and 
composed in it with precision and elegance. 
They were however the last of their couutry- 
men who deserved to be considered as poets 
in that century. The muses of Scotland sunk 
into silence, and did not again raise their voices 
for a period of eighty years. 

To what causes are we to attribute this ex. 
treme depression among a people comparatively 
learned, enterprising, and ingeni >us ? Shall 
-we impute it to the fanaticism of the cove- 
nanters, or to the tyranny of the house of Stuart 
after their restoration to the throne ? Doubt- 
less these causes operated, but they seem un- 
equal to account for the effect. In England, 
similar distractions and oppressions took place, 
yet poetry flourished there in a remarkable 



c. g. The Authors of the Ddicice Foelariw 



degree. During this period, Cowley, nnd 
W aller, and Dryden sung, and Wilton raised 
his strain of unparalleled grandeur. To the 
causes already mentioned, another must be 
added, in accounting for the torpor of Scottish 
literature — the want of a proper vehicle for 
men of genius to employ. The civil wars had 
frightened away the Latin muses, and no 
standard had been established of the Scottish 
tongue, wh:ch was deviating still farther from 
the pure English idiom. 

The revival of literature in Scotland may 
le dated from the establishment of the union, 
or rather from the extinction of the rebellion 
in 1715. The nations being finally incorpo- 
rated, it was clearly seen that their tcngues 
must in the end incorporate also ; or rathei in- 
deed that the Scottish language must degener- 
ate into a provincial idiom, to be avoided by 
those who would aim at distinction in letters, 
or rise to eminence in the united legislature. 

Soon after this, a band of men of genius ap- 
peared, who studied the English classics, and 
imitated their beauties, in the same manner 
as they studied the classics of Greece and 
Koine. They had admirable models of com- 
position lately presented to them by the 
writers of the reign of Queen Anne ; particu- 
larly in the periodical papers published by 
Steele, Addison, and their associated friends, 
which circulated w idely through Scotland, and 
diffused every where a taste for purity of style 
and sentiment, and for critical disquisition. 
At length, the Scottish writers succeeded in 
English composition, and a union was formed 
of the literary talents, as well as of the legisla- 
tures of the two nations. On this occasion 
the poets took the lead. While Henry Home,| 
Dr Wallace, nnd their learned associates, 
were only laying in their intellectual stores, 
and studying to clear themselves of their Scot- 
tish idioms, Thomson, Mallet, and Hamilton 
of Bangour, had made their appearance before 
the public, and been enrolled on the list of 
English poets. The writers in prose followed— 
a numerous and powerful band, and poured 
their ample stores into the general stream of 
British literature. Scotland possessed her 
four universities before the accession of James 
to the English throne. Immediately before the 
union, she acquired her parochial schools. 
These establish nents combining happily to- 
gether, made the elements of knowledge of 
easy acquisition, and presented a direct path, 
by which the ardent student might be carried 
along into the recesses of science or learning. 
As civil broils ceased, and faction and preju- 
dice gradually died away, a wider field was 
opened to literary ambition, and the influence 
of the Scottish institutions for instruction, on 
the productions of the press, became more and, 
more apparent. 

It seems indeed probable, that the establish- 
ment of the parochial schools produced effects 
on the rural muse of Scotland also, which 
have not hitherto been suspected, and which, 
though less splendid in their nature, are not 
however to be regarded as trivial, whether we 
consider the happiness or the morals of the 

There is some reason to helieve, that the 



63 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



original inhabitants of the British isles pos- 
sessed a peculiar and interesting species of 
masic, -which being banished from the plains 
by the successive invasions of the Saxons, 
Danes, and Normans, was preserved with 
the native race, in the wilds of Ireland and 
in the mountaius of Scotland and Wales. 
The Irish, the Scottish, and the Welsh music, 
differ indeed from each other, bat the Gifference 
may be considered as in dialect only, and pro- 
bably produced by the influence of" time, like 
the different dialcts of their common language. 
If this conjecture be true, the Scottish music 
must be more immediately of a Highland 
origin, and the Lowland tunes, though now of 
a character somewhat distinct, must have de- 
scended from the mountains in remote ages. 
Whatever credit may be given to conjectures, 
evidently involved in great uncertainty, there 
can be no doubt that the Scottish peasantry 
have been long in possession of a number of 
songs and ballads composed in their native 
dialect, and sung to their native music. The 
subjects of these compositions were such as 
most interested the simple inhabitants, and in 
the succession of time varied probably as the 
condition of society vari=d. During the separa- 
tion and the hostility of the two nations, these 
songs and ballads, as far as our imperfect do- 
cuments enable ns to jocge, were chiefly war- 
like ; such as the Huatis of Cheviot, and the 
Battle of Harlaw. -After the union of the two 
crowns', when a certain degree of peace and 
tranquillity t'.>ok place, the rural muse of Scot- 
land breathed in softer accents. '-In the 
want of real evidence respecting the history of 

course may be had to conjecture. One would 
be disposed to think, that the most beautiful 
of the Scottish tunes were clothed with new 
words after the union of the crowns. The in 
habitants of the borders, who had formerly 
been warriors from choice and huobaudmen 
from necessity, either quitted the country, or 
were transformed into teal shepherds, easy in 
their circumstances, and satisfied with their 
lot. Some sparks of that spirit of chivalry 
for which they are celebrated by Froissart 
remained sufficient to inspire elevation of sen- 
timent and gallantry towards the fair sex. The 
familiarity and kindness which had long sub- 
sisted between the genTy and the peasantry, 
could not all at once be obliterated, and this 
connection tended to sweeten rural life. In this 
6tate of innocence, ease, and tranquillity of 
mind, the love of poetry and music would still 

assume a form congenial to the more peaceful 
state of society. Tae minstrels, whose metri- 
cal tales used' once to rouse the borderers, like 
the trumoet's sound, had been, by an order of 
the Legislature (1579) classed with rogues and 
vagaoonds, and attempted to be suppressed. 
K.tdx and his disciples influenced the Scottish 
parliament, but contended in vain with her 
rural muse. Amidst our Arcadian vales, pto- 
bably on the Banks of the Tweed, or some of 
its tributary streams, one or more original 
geniuses may have arisen, who were destined 
to give a new turn to the taste of their country- 
men. They would see that the events and 
pursuits which chequer priva:e life were the 
prober subjects for popular poetry. Love, 
fhi.'k h3l formerly held a divided sway with 



glory and ambition, beeame now the master- 
passion of the soul. To pourtray in lively and 
delicate colours, though with "a hasty hand, 
the hopes and fears that agitate the breast of 
the love-sick swain, or forlorn maiden, afford 
ample scope to the rural poet. Love-songs, of 
wh'ch Tibullus himself would not have beeu 
ashamed, might be composed by an uneducated 
rustic with a slight tincture of letters ; or if in 
these songs the character of the rustic be some- 
times assumed, the truth of character, and the 
language of nature, are preserved. With un- 
affected simplicity and tenderness, topics are 
urged, most likely to soften the heart of a cruel 
and coy mistress, or to regain a tickle lover. 
Even in such as are of a melancholy cast, a ray 
of hope breaks through, and dispels the deep 
and settled gloom which characterizes the 
sweetest of the Highland luenags, or vocal airs. 
Ncr are these songs all plaintive ; many of 
them are lively and humorous, and some appear 
to us coarse and indelicate. They seem, how- 
ever, genuine descriptions of the manners of an 
energetic and sequestered people in i heir hours 
of mirth and festivity, though in 'heir portraits 
some objects are brought into open view, which 
more fastidious painters would have thrown into 

*' As those rural poets sung for amusement, 
not for gain, their effusions seldom exceeded a 
love-song, or a ballad of satire or humour, 
which, like the words of the elder minstrels, 
were seldom committed to writing, but trea- 
sured up in the memory of their friends and 
neighbours. Neither known to the learned 
nor patronized by the grea f , tbes? rustic bards 
lived and died in obscurity ; and by a strange 
fatality, their story, and even their very names 
have been forgotten.* When proper models 
for pastoral songs were produced, there would 
be no want of imitators. To succeed in this 
species of composition, soundness of under- 
standing and sensibility of heart were more re- 
quisite than flights of imagination or pomp of 
numbers. Great changes have certainly tak-n 
place in Scottish song-wririne, though we can- 
not trace the steps of this change ; and few of 
the pieces admred in Queen Mary's time are 
now to be discovered in modern collections. 
It is possible, though not probable, that tha 
music may have remained nearly the same, 
though the words to the tunes were entirely 
new-modelled, "f 

These conjectures are highly ingenious. It 
cannot, however, he presumed, that the sUte 
of ease and tranquillity described by Mr Rant- 
say took place amo:.g the Scottish peasantry 
immediately on the union of the two crowns, or 
indeed during the greater part of the seventeenth 
century. The Scottish nation, through all 
ranics, was deeply egilated by the civil wars, 



* In the Pepys collection, there are a few 
Scottish songs of the last century, but the 
names of the authors are not ^reserved. 

f Extract of a letter from Mr Ramsey cf 
Ochtertyre to the Editor, Sept. 11, 1799. la 
the Bee. Vol. II. p. 201, is a communication 
of .Mr Ramsay, under the signature of J. Run- 
cole, which enters into this subject somewhat 
more nt large. In that paper be gives his rea- 
sons for questioning (he antiquity of many of 
the celebra-.cd Scottish son^?. 



H URNS.— LIFE. 



<>-: 



and the religious persecutions which succeeded 
each other in that disastrous period; it was 
not till after the revolution in 1688, and the 
subsequent establishment of their beloved form 
of church government, that the peasantry of 
the Lowlands enjoyed comparative repose ; and 
it is fiuce that period that a great number of ] 
the most admired Scottish songs have been 
produced, though the tunes, to which they are ( 
sung, are in general of much greater antiquity. 
It is not unreasonable to suppose, that the 
peace and security derived from the Revolu- j 
tion, and the Union, produced a favourable 
change on the rustic poetry of Scotland ; and j 
it can scarcely be doubted, that the institution 
of parish schools in 1696, by which a certain ; 
degree of instruction was diffused universally , 
among the peasantry, contributed to this happy 
effect. 

Soon after this appeared Allan Ramsay, the ] 
Scottish Theocritus. He was torn on the 
high mouuains that divide Cl\desdale and 
Annandale, in a small hamlet by the banks of 
Glengonar, a stresm which descends into the 
Clyde. The ruins of this hamlet are still 
fhown to the inquiring traveller.* He was 
the son of a peasant, and probably received 
such instruction as his parish-school bestowed, 
nnd the poverty of his parents admitted. -f» 
Ramsay made his appearance in Edinburgh, 
in the beginning of the present century, in the 
humble character of an apprentice to a barber ; 
he was then fourteen or fifteen years of age. By 
degrees he acquired notice for his social dispo- 
sition, and his talent for the composition of 
verses in the Scottish idiom : and, changing 
his profession for that of a bookseller, he 
became intimate with many of the literary, as 
well as of the pay and fashionable characters 
of his time. $ Having published a volume of 
poems of his own in 1721, which was favourably 
received, he undertook to make a collection of 
ancient Scottish poems, under the title of the 
Ever-Green, and was afterwards encouraged 
to present to the world a collection of Scottish 
songs. •' From what sources he procured 
them," says Ramsay of Ochtertyre, " whether 
from tradition or manuscript, is uncertain. 
As in the Ever-Green he made some rash 
attempts to improve on the originals of his 
ancient poems, he probably used still greater 



* See Campbell's History of Poetry in Sect- 
land, p. 185. 

f '1 he father of Mr Ramsay was, it is said, 
a workman in the lead-mines of the Earl of 
Hopetoun, at Lead hills. The workmen at 
those mines at present are of a very superior 
character to miners in general. They have 
only six hours of labour in the day, and have 
time for reading. They have a common library 
supported by contribution, containing several 
thousand volumes. When this was instituted, 
1 have not learned. These miners are said to 
be of a very sober and moral character. Allan 
Ramsay, when very young, is supposed to have 
been a washer of ore in these mines. 

\ "He was coeval with Joseph Mitchell, 
ami his club of small wits, who, about 1719, 
published a very poor miscellany, to which l)r 
Young, the author of the Night Thoughts, 
prefixed a copy of verses. ' ' Extinct of a letter 
from Mr Ramsey nf Ochtertyre to the Editor. 



freedom with the songs and ballads. The 
truth cannot, however, be known on this point, 
till manuscripts of the songs printed by him, 
more ancient than the present century shall be 
produced, or access be obtained to his own 
papers, if they are still in existence. To 
several tunes which ei'her wanted words, or 
had words that were improper or imperfect, 
he or his friends adapted verses worthy of the 
melodies they accompanied, worthy indeed of 
the golden age. These verses were perfectly 
intelligible to every rustic, yet justly admired 
by persons of taste, who regarded them as the 
genuine offspring of the pastoral muse. In 
some respects, Ramsay had advantages net 
possessed by poets writing in the Scottish dia- 
lect in our days. Songs in the dialect of 
Cumberland or Lancashire, could never be 
popular, because these dialects have never been 
spoken by persons of fashion. But till the 
middle of the present century, every Scotsman, 
from the peer to the peasant, spoke a truly 
Doric language. It is true, the English mo- 
ralists and poets were by this time read by 
every person of condition, i.r.d considered as 
the standards for polite composition. But, as 
national prejudices were still strong, the busy, 
the learned, the gay, and the fair, continued 
to speak their native dialect, and that with an 
elegance and poignancy of which Scotsmen of 
the present day can have no just notion. 1 am 
old enough to have conversed with IVIr Spinal, 
of Leuchat, a scholar, and a man of fashion, 
who survived all the members of the Union 
Parliament, in which he had a seat. His pro- 
nunciation and phraseology differed as much 
from the common dialect,^ as the language of 
from that of Thames Street. Had 






. 



it of ci 



of the two sister kingdoms would 
indeed have differed like the Castilian and 
Portuguese; but each would have its own 
classics, not in a single branch, but iu the 
whole circle of literature. 

" Ramsay associated with the men of wit 
and fashion of his day, and several of them 
attempted to write poetry in his manner. 
Persons too idle or too dissipated to think of 
compositions that required much exertion, 
succeeded very happily iu making tender sen- 
nets to favourite tunes in compliment to their 
mistresses, and transforming themselves into 
impassioned shepherds, caught the language of 
the characters they assumed. Thus, about 
the year 1731, Robert Crawford of Auch;- 
names, wrote the modern song of Ticecdside,§ 
which has been so much admired. Iu 1 743, 
Sir Gilbert Elliot, the first of cur lawyers who 
both spoke and wrote English elegantly, com- 
posed, in the character of a love-sick swain, a 
beautiful song, beginning, Afi/ (keep 1 7tegiicted, 
I lost my sheephook; on the marriage of his mis- 
tress, Miss Forbes, with Ronald Crawf rd. 
And about twelve vears afterwards, the sister 
of Sir Gilbert wrote the ajicient words to the 
tune of the Flowers of the Forest ;\\ and sup 
posed to allude to the battle of Flow jen. In 
spite of the double rhyme, it is a sweet, and 



§ Beginning, IV7in< beauties doer. Flora dis- 

I! Beginning, I have heard a lilting at ->ur 
ewes-milking. 



61 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



though in some parts allegorical, a natural 
expression of national sorrow. The more 
modern words to the same tune, beginning, 1 
liave seen the smiling of fortune beguiling, ive:e 
written long before by .Ws Cockburn, aVoman 
of great wit, who outlived all the first group 
of literati of the present century, all of whom 
were very fond of her. 1 was delighted with 
her company, though when I saw her, she 
was very old. Much did she know that is now 
lost. ' ' 

In addition to these instances of Scottish 
songs, produced in the earlier part of the pre- 
sent century, may be mentioned the ballad of 
Hardiknute, by Lady "Wardlavv ; the ballad of 
William and Margaret ; and the song entitled 
the Birks of hivermay, by Mallet ; the love- 
song, beginning, For ever. Fortune, icVt thou 
prove, produced by the youthful muse of r l horn- 
son ; and the exquisite pathetic ballad, the 
Braes of Yarrow, by Hamilton of Bangour. 
On the revival of letters in Scotland, subse- 
quent to the L'nion, a very general taste seems 
to have prevailed for the national songs and 
mu^ie. " For many years, ' ' says Mr lUmsr.y , 
*' the sinking of songs was the great delight 
of the higher and middle order of the people, 
as well as of the peasantry ; and though a taste 
for Italian music has interfered with this 
amusement, it is still very prevalent. Between 
forty and fifty years ago, the common people 
were not only exceedingly fond of songs and 
ballads, but of metrical history. Often have I, 
in my cheerful morn of youth, listened to them 
with delight, when reading or reciting the ex- 
ploits of Wallace and Bruce against the Scuih- 
rons. Lord Hailcs was wont to call Blind 
Harry their Bible, he being their great favour- 
ite next the Scriptures. When, therefore, one 
in the vale of life felt the fi rst emotion cf ge- 
nius, he wanted not models sui gt-neris. But 
though the seeds cf poetry were scattered with 
a plentiful hand among the Scottish peasantry, 
the product was probably like that of pears and 
apples— of a thousand that sprung up, nine 
hundred and fifty are so bad as to set the teeth 
on edge ; foity-t.ve or mere are passable and 
useful; and the rest of an exquisite flavour. 
Allan Ramsay and Burns are wildlings of this 
last description. They had the example of the 
elder Scottish poets ; they were not without j 
the aid of the best English writers ; and, what 
was of still more importance, they were no 
strangers to the book of nature, and to the book j 

Front this general view, it is apparent that 
Allan Ramsay ma; Le considered as in a great 
measure the reviver of the rural poetry of his 
country. His collection of ancient Scottish 

Eoems, under the name of The Ever-Green, 
is collection of Scottish songs, and his own 
poems, the principal of -which is the Gentle 
Shepherd, have been universally read among 
the peasantry of his country, and have in some 
degree superseded the adventures of Bruce and 
W allace, as recorded by Barbour and Blind 
Harry. Burns was well acquainted with all of 
these. He had also before him the poems cf 
Fergusscn in the Scottish dialect, which have 
been produced in our own times, and of which 
it will be necessary to give a short account 

I-ergusscm was born of parents who had it in 
their power to procure him a 1 beral education, a 
tircunisiar.ee, however, which in Scotland im- 



plies no very high rank in society. From a well 
written and apparently authentic account of his 
life,* we learn that he spent six years at the 
schools of Edinburgh and Dundee, and several 
years at the Universities of Edinburgh and St 
Andrew's. It appears that he was at one time 
destined for the Scottish Church; but as he 
advanced towards manhood, he renounced that 
intention, and at Edinburgh entered the office 
of a writer to the signet, a title which desig 
nates a separate ana higher order of Scottish 
attorneys. Fergusscn had sensibility of mind, 
a warm and generous heart, and talents for 
society of the most attractive kind. To such a 
man no situation could be more dangerous than 
that in which he was placed. 'J he excesses 
into which he was ltd, impaired his feeble 
constitution, and he sunk under them in the 
month of October, 1774, in his 23d or 24th 
year. Burns was not acquainted with the 
poems of this youthful genius when he himself 
began to write poetry; and when he first saw 
them, he had renounced the muses. But while 
he resided in the town of Irvine, meeting with 
Fiiivstcn's Scottish Poems, he informs us that 
he •« strung his lyre anew with emulating vi- 
gour. " Touched" by the sympaihy originating 
in kindred genius, and in the forebodings of 
similar fortune, Burns regarded Fergusscn 
with a pariial and an affectionate admiration. 
Over his grave he erected a monument, as has 
already been mentioned ; and his poems he has, 
in several instances, made the subjects of his 

From this account of the Scottish pcems 
known to Bums, those who are acquainted 
with them will see they are chiefly humor- 
gus or pathetic: and under one or other cf 
these descriptions most if bis own poems will 
class. Let us compare him with his predeces- 
sors under each cf these points of view, and 
close cur examination with a few general ob- 
it has frequently been observed, that Scotland 
has produced, comparatively speaking, few 
wrileis who have excelled in humour. But 
this observation is true only when applied to 
those who have continued to reside in their own 
country, and hive ccnflned themselves to com- 
position in pure English ; and in these circum- 
stances it admits of an easy explanation. The 
Scottish poets, who have written in the dialect 
of Scotland, have been at all times remarkable 
for dwelling on subjects of iiumour, in which 
indeed some of them have excelled. It would 
be easy to show, that the dialect of Scotland 
having become provincial, is now scarcely suit- 
ed to the more elevated kinds of poetry. If we 
may believe tbat the poem of Christ's Kirk of 
the Grene was written by James the First t of 



In the Supplement to the Encyclopedia 
Britannka. See also, Campbells lutrccuclicn 
to the History of Poetry in Scotland, p. 288. 

f Notwithstanding the evidence produced on 
this subject bv Mr Tytler, the Editor acknow- 
ledges his being somewhat cf a sceptic on this 
point. Sir David Dalrymp'.e inclines to the 
opinion that it was written by his successor 
James the Fifth. There are oifBculties at- 

ing this supposition also. But on the 

»et of Scottish Antiquities the Editor is an 

mpetcnt judge 



BURNS — LIFE. 



Co 



direction of Henry the Fourth, and who bore I 
arms under his gallant successor, gave the j 
model on which the greater pan of the 
humorous productions of the rustic muse of 
Scotland had been formed. Christie Kirk 
of the Grene was reprinted by Ramsay, 
somewhat modernized in the orthography, 
and two cantos were added by him in which 
he attempts to carry on the design. Hence 
the poem of King James is usually printed in 
Ramsay's works. The royal bard describes, 
in the hrst canto, a rustic dance, and after- 
wards a contention in archery, ending in an 
affray. Ramsay relates the restoration of con- 
cord," and the renewal of the rural sports with 
the humours of a country wedding, 'lhough 
each of the poets describes the manners of his 
respective age, jet in the whole piece there is 
a very sufficient uniformity ; a striking proof 
of the identity of character in the Scottish 
peasantry at the two periods, distant from 
each other three hundred years. It is an hon- 
ourable distinction to this body of men, that 
their character and manners, very little em- 
bellished, have been found to be susceptible of 
an amusing and interesting species of poetry; 
and it must appear not a little curious, that the 

sesses an original poetry, should have re- 
ceived the model, followed by their rustic bards, 
from the monarch on the throne. 

The two additional cantos to Christis Kirk 
oftlm Grene, written by Ramsay, though ob- 
jectionable in point of delicacy, are among the 
happiest of his productions. His chief excel- 
lence, indeed, lay in the description of rural 
characters, incidents, and scenery ; for he did 
not possess any very high powers either of 
imagination or of understanding, He was 
well acquainted with the peasantry of Scot- 
land, their lives, and opinions. The subject 
was in a great measure new ; his talents were 
equal to the subject ; and he has shown that it 
may be happily adapted to pastoral poetry. 
In his Gentle Shepherd, the characters are de- 
lineations from nature, the descriptive parts 
are in the genuine style of beautiful simplicity, 
the passions and affections of rural life are 
finely pourtrayed, and the heart is pleasingly 
interested in the happiness that is bestowed on 
innocence and virtue. Throughout the whole 
there is an air of reality which the most care- 
less reader cannot but perceive ; and in fact no 
poem ever perhaps acquired so high a reputa- 
tion, in which truth received so little embel- 
lishment from the imagination. In his pasto- 
ral songs, and his rural tales, Ramsay appears 
to less advantage, indeed, but still with con- 
siderable attraction. The story of the Monk 
and the Milter's Wife, though somewhat licen- 
tious, may rank with the happiest productions 
of Prior or La Fontaine. Rut when he at- 
tempts subjects from higher life, and aims at 
pure English composition, he is feeble and un- 
interesting, and seldom even reaches mediocri- 
ty.* Neither are his familiar epistles and el- 
egies in the Scottish dialect entitled to much 
r.pprobation. Though Fergusson had higher 
powers of imagination than Ramsay, his 



* See Tltc Morning Zntervici 



genius was not of the highest order; nor did 
his learning, which was considerable, improve 
liis genius. His poems written in pure Eng- 
lish, in which he often follows classical mo- 
dels, though superior to the English poems of 
Ramsay, seldom rise above mediocrity ; but in 
those composed in the Scottish dialect he is 
often very successful. He was, in general, 
however, less happy than Ramsay in the sub- 
jects of his muse. As he spent the greater part 
of his life in Edinburgh, and wrote for ins 
amusement in the intervals tf business or dis- 
sipation, his Scottish poems are chieliy found- 
ed on the incidents of a town life, which, 
though they are not susceptible of humour, do 
not admit of those delineations of scenery and 
manners, which vivify the rural poetry of 
Ramsay, and which so agreeatly amuse the 
fancy and interest the heart. '1 he town ec- 
logues of Fergusson, if we may so denominate 
them, are however faithful to nature, and 
often distinguished by a very happy vein of 
humour. His poems entitled The Daft Days, 
The King's Birth-day in Edinburgh, Ltith 
Races, and The Hallow Fair, will justify this 
character. In these, particularly in the last, 
he imitated Christis Kirk of the Grene, as 
Ramsay had done before him. His Address to 
the Tron-kirk Bell is an exquisite piece of hu- 
mour, which Burns has scarcely excelled. In 
appreciating the genius of Fergusson, it ought 
to be recollected, that his poems are the care- 
less effusions of an irregular though amiable 
young man, who wrote for tiie periodical pa- 
pers of the day, and who died in early youth. 
Had his life been prolonged under happier cir- 
cumstances of fortune, he would probably have 
risen to much higher reputation. He might 
have excelled in rural poetry, for though his 
professed pastorals wi the established Sicilian 
model, are stale and uninteresting. The Far- 
m<r's Ingle, 'f' which may Le considered as a 
Scottish pastoral, is the happiest of all his 
productions, and certainly was the archetype 
of the Cotter's Saturcai/ Night. Fergusson. 
and more especially Burns, have shown, that 
the character and manners of the peasantry of 
Scotland, of the present times, are as well 
adapted to poetry, as in the days of Ramsay, 
or of the author of Christis Kirk of the 

The humour of Burns is of a richer vein than 
that of Ramsay or Fergusson, both of whom, 
as he himself informs ns» he had "frequently 
in his eye, but rather with a view to kindle at 
their flame, than to servile imitation." His 
descriptive powers, whether the objects on 
which they are employed be comic or serious, 
animate or inanimate, are of the highest or- 
der. -A superiority of this kind is essential to 
every species of poetical excellence. In one of 
his earlier poems his plan seems to be to incul- 
cate a lesson of contentment on the lower clas- 
ses of society, by showing that their superiors 
are ueither mucli better nor happier than them- 
selves ; and this he chooses to execute in the 
form of a dialogue between two dogs. He in- 
troduces this di-.logue by an account of th© 
persons and characiers of the speakers. The 
first, whom he has named Ccesar, is a dog 
of condition :— . 



A The farmer's lire-side. 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



"At kirk or market, mill or smlddie, 
Nae tawted tyke, tho' e'er sae duddie, 
But he wad stan't, as glad to see him, 
And slroan't on staiies an' hillocks ici' Ai'j/t." 

The other, Lualh, is a " ploughman's collie, " 
hut a cur of a good heart and a sound under- 
standing. 

•* His honest, sonsie, bawsent fice, 
Aye gat h:tn friends in ilka place ; 
His breast was white, his lowsie back, 
Weel clad wi* coat o' glossy black ; 
His gawcie tail, wi' upward curl, 
Hung o'er his hurdics ici' a swirL " 

Never were two. dogs so exquisitely delinea- 
ted. Their gambjls, before they sit down to 
moralize, are described with an equal degree of 
happiness ; and through the whole dialogue, 
the character, as well as the different condition 
of the two speakers, is kept in view. The 
speech of Luaih, in which he enumera'es the 
comforts of the poor, gives tbe following ac 
count of their merriment on the first day of the 
year: 

" That merry day the vear begins, 
They bar the door on frosty winds :' 
The nappy reeks wi' mantling reain. 
And sheds a heart-inspiring steam ; 
The luntin pipe, and sneeshin' mill, 
Are handed round wi' right guid-will ; 
The canty auld folks crackin crouse, 
The young anes rantin thro' the house — 
My heart has been sae fain to see them, 
2'hat I for joy hue barkit ici' them. " 

Of all the animals who have moralized oa 
human affairs since the days of ,Esop, the dog 
seems best entitled to this privilege, as will 
from his superior sagacity, as from his being, 
more than any other, the friend and associate 
of man. The dogs of Burns, excepting in 
their talent for moralizing, are downright 
dogs ; and not like the horses of Swift, or tbe 
Hind and Panther of Dryden, men in the 
shape of brutes. It is this circumstance that 
heightens the humour of the dialogue. The 
"twa dogs" are constantly kept before our 
eyes, and the contrast between their form and 
character as dogs, and the sagacity of their 
conversation, heightens the humour, and deep- 
ens the impression of the poet's satire. Though 
in this poem the chief excellence may be con- 
sidered as humour, yet great talents are dis- 
played in its composition; the happiest powers 
of description and the deepest insight into the 
human heart.* It is seldom, however, that 



* When this poem first appeared, it was 
thought by some very surprising, that a peasant 
who had not an opportunity of associating even 
with a simple gentleman, should have been 
able to portray the character of high-life with 
such accuracy. And when it was recollected 
that he had probably been at the races of Ayr, 



the humour of Burns appears in so simple a 
form. The liveliness of his sensibility fre- 
quently impels him to introduce into subjects of 
tenderness or of piiv ; 






emotions 
here occasion adi 
carried on to exert the higher powers of 
nation. In such instances he leaves thi 
of Ramsay and of Fereu ; 
himself with the masters of English poetry" 
whose language he frequently assumes. 

Of the union of tenderness and humour, ex 
amples may be found in l"he Death and Duwl 
Words of poor Mailie, in The auld Farmer's 
Kcir-Year's Homing Salutation to his Mare 
Maggie, and in many of his other poems. The 
praise of whisky is a favourite subject with 
Burns. To this he dedicates his poem of 
Scotch Drink. After mentioning its cheering 
influence in a variety of situations, hede^cribes™ 
with singular liveliness and power of fancy, 
its stimulating effects on the blacksmith work- 
ing at his foige: 



1 Xr_; 






„ , then, for aim or steel ; 

The brawnie, baiuie, ploughman chiel, 

Brings hard owre-hip, wi' Murdy wheel. 

The strong fore hammer, 

' studdie ring and reel. 

i' dinsome clamour. ' ' 



Till block a 



On 



whom the vine furnishes their beverage, and 
his cwu countrymen who drink the spirit of 
mait. The description of the Scotchman is 
humorous : 



1 But bring a Scotsman frae his hill, 

his cheek a Highland gill,± 

ch is royal George's will, 

An' there's the foe; 

He has nae thought but how to kill 

Twa at a blow. " 






!t Nae cauld, faint-hearted doublings teazehim ; 
Death comes — wi' fearless eye he sees him : 
Wi" bluidy baud a welcome gies him, 

And when he fa's, 
His latest draught o' breathing lea'es him 

In faint huzzas. " 

Again, however, he sinks into humour, and 
concludes the poem with the following most 
laughable, but most irreverent apostrophe: 



where nobility as well as gentry are to be seen, 
it was concluded (hat the race-ground had been 
the field of his observation. This was sag*? 
: enough ; but it did not require such in- 
struction to inform Burns, that human nature 
is essentially the same in the high and the 
low ; and a genius which comprehends the 
human mind, easily comprehends the acciden- 
tal varieties introduced bv situation. 

f The Author's Earnest Cry and Prayer i» 
the Scotch Rern-esetdaihvs in Parliament. 
X Of whisky. 



BURNS.— LIFE. 



07 



" Scotland, my auld, respected mither! 
Tho' whiles ye rnoistify your leather, 
Till where \ou sit, on craps o' heather, 



Of this union of humour, with the higher 
powers of imagination, instances may be found 
in the poem entitled Death and Dr Hornbook, 
and in almost every stanza of the Address to 
the Dc't'Z, one of the happiest of his produc- 
tions. After reproaching this terrible being 
with all his "doings" and misdeeds, in the 
course of which he passes through a series 
of Scottish superstitions, and rises at times into 
a high strain of poetry ; he concludes this ad- 
dress, delivered in a tone of great familiarity, 
not altogether unmixed with apprehension, in 
the following words : 

. " But, fare ye weel, auld Nickie-Len ! 
O wad ye tak a thought an' men' ! 
Ye aiblins might— 1 dinna ken- 
Still hae a stake— 
I'm wae to think upo' yon den 

Ev'n for your sake ! 

Humour and tenderness are here so happily 
intermixed, that it is impossible to say which 
preponderates. 

Fergusson wrote a dialogue between the 
Causeway and the Plainstoncn * of Edinburgh. 
This probably suggested to Burns his dialogue 
between the Old and New Bridge over the 
river Ayr. The nature of such subjects requires 
that they shall be treated humorously, and 
Fergusson has attempted nothing beyond this. 
Though the Causeway and the Plaiustones talk 
together, no attempt is made to personify the 
speakers. A"cadie" + heard the conversa- 
tion and reported it to the poet. 

In the dialogue between the Brigs of Ayr, 
Burns himself is the auditor, and the time and 
occasion on which it occurred is related with 

freat circumstantiality. The poet, "pressed 
y care," or " inspired by whim," had left 
his bed in the town of Ayr, and wandered out 
alone in the darkness and solitude of a winter 
night, to the mouth of the river, where the 
stillness was interrupted only by the rush- 
ing sound of the influx of the tide. It was 
after midnight. The Dungeon-clock \ had 
struck two, and the sound had been repeated 
by Wallace-Tower, t All else was hushed. 
The moon shone brightly, and 

" The chilly frost, beneath the silver beam, 
Crept, gently-crusting, o'er the glittering 
stream." 

Tn this situation, the listening bard hears the 
'• clanging svigh" of wings moving through 
the air, and speedily he perceives two beings, 
reared, the one on the Old, the other on the 
New Bridge, whose form and attire he 
describes, and whose conversation with each 
other he rehearses- These genii enter into a 
comparison of the respective edifices over 
which they preside, and afterwards, as is 



* The middle of the street, and the sideway. 
i A messenger. \ The two steeples of Ayr. 



usual between the old and young, compare 
modern characters and manners with those of 
past times. They differ, as mav be expected, 
and taunt and scold each other in broad 
Scotch. This conversation, which is cer- 
tainly humorous, may be considered as the 
proper business of the poem. As the debate 
runs high, and threatens serious consequences, 
all at once it is interrupted by a new scene of 
wonders, 



sight 



A fairy train appear 'd in 01 

Adown the glittering stream they featlv danced; 

Bright to the moon their various dresees 

They footed o'er the wat'ry glass so neat, 
The infant ice scarce bent beneath their feet ; 
While arts of minstrelsy among them rung, 
And soul-ennobled Bards heroic ditties sung. '' 



" The Genius of the Stream in front appears, 
A venerable chief, advanced in years ; 
His hoary head with water-lilies crown'd, 
His manly leg with garter tangle bound. " 

Next follow a number of other allegorical 
beings, among whom are the four seasons, 
Rural Joy, Plenty, Hospitality, and Courage. 

" Benevolence, with mild benignant air, 
A female form, came from the tow 'rs of Stair ; 
Learning and Worth in equal measures trode, 
From simple Catrine, their long-loved abode : 
Last, white-robed Peace, crown'd with a 

hazel wreath, 
To rustic Agriculture did bequeath 
The broken iron instrument of Death ; 
At sight of whom our Sprites forgat their kind- 
ling wrath. " 

This poem, irregular and imperfect as it is, 
displays various and powerful talents, and 
may serve to illustrate the genius of Burns. In 
particular, it affords a striking instance of his 
being carried beyond his original purpose by 
the powers of imagination. 

In Fergusson 's poem, the Plainstones and 
Causeway contrast the characters of the differ- 
ent persons who walked upon them. Burns 
probably conceived, that, by a dialogue be- 
tween the Old and New Bridge, he might 
form a humorous contrast between ancient and 
modern manners in the town of Ayr. Such a 
dialogue could only be supposed to pass in the 
stillness of night ; and this led our poet into a 
description of a midnight scene, which excited 
in a high degree the powers of his imagina- 
tion. During the whole dialogue the scenery 
is present to his fancy, and at length it sug- 
gests to him a fairy dance of aerial beings, 
under the beams of the moon, by which the 
wrath of the Genii of the Brigs of Ayr is ap- 
peased. 

Incongruous as the different parts of this 
poem are, it is not an incongruity that dis- 
pleases ; and we have only to regret that the 
poet did not bestow a little pains in making tha 
figures more correct, and in smoothing (ho 
versification. 

The epistles of Burns, in which may be in- 
cluded his Dedication to G. H. Esq. discovor, 



63 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



like his other writings, the powers of a supe- 
rior understanding. They display deep insight 
into human nature, a gay and happy strain of 
reflection, great independence of sentiment, 
and generosity of heart. It is to be regretted, 
that in his Holy Fair, and in some of his other 
poems, his humour degenerates into personal 
satire, and is not sufficiently guarded in other 
respects. The Hitbowten of Burns is free 
from every objection of this sort. It is inter- 
esting not merely from its humorous descrip- 
tion of manners, but as it records the spells 
and charms used on the celebration of a festi- 
val, now, even in Scotland, falling into neglect, 
but which was once observed over ihe greater 
part of Britain and Ireland.* These charms 
are supposed to afford an insight into futurity, 
especially on the subject of marriage, the most 
interesting event of rural life. In the Hal- 
Icwetn, a female, in performing one of the 
spells, has occasion to go out by moonlight to 
dip her shift-sleeve into a stream running to- 
wards the South. It was not necessary fcr 
Burns togi\e a description of this stream. But 
it was the character of his ardent mind to pour 
forth not merely what the occasion required, 
but what it aumitted ; and the temptation to 
describe so beautiful a natural object by moon- 
light, was not to be resisted — 

*' "Whyles owre a linn the burnie nlays, 

As through the glen it wimplet : 
Vi hyles round the rocky scaur it strays : 

"VVhyles in a wiel it ofimplet ; 
Whyles glitter'd to the nightly rays, 

Wi' bickering dancing dazzle j 
VVhyles cookit underneath the braes, 

Beneath the spreading hazle. 

Unseen that night. 

' Those who understand the Scottish dialect 
•will allow this to be one of the finest instances 
of description which the records of poetry af- 
ford. — Though of a very difl'erent nature, it 
may be compared, in point of excellence, with 
Thomson's description of a river swollen by 
the rains of winter, bursting through the 
fctreights that confine its torrent, '"boiling, 
wheeling, foaming, and thundering along, "f 
In pastoral, or, to speak more correctly, in 
rural pottry of a serious nature, Burns excelled 
equally as "in that of a humorous kind, and, 
using'less of the Scottish dialect in his serious 
poems, he becomes more generally intelligible. 
It is difficult to decide whether the Address to a 
Mouse whose nest was turned up with the plough, 
should be considered as serious or comic. Be 
this as it may, the poem is one of the happiest 
and most finished of his productions. If we 
Bmile at the '« bickering brattle" of this little 
flying animal, it is a smile of tenderness and 
pity. The descriptive part is admirable: the 
moral reflections beautiful, and arising directly 
out of the occasion ; and in the conclusion there 
is a deep melancholy, a sentiment of doubt and 
dread, that arises to the sublime. The Address 
to a Mountain Daisy turned down with the 
plough, is a poem of the same nature, though 
6omewhat inferior in point of originality, *~ 



* fa Ireland it is still celebrated. It is not 
mite in disuse in Wales. 

f See Thomson's \Kln!er. 



well as in the interest produced. To extract 
out of incidents so common, and seemingly so 
trivial as these, so fine a train of sentiment and 
imagery, is the surest proof, as well as the most 
brilliant triumph, of original genius. The 
Vision, in two cantos, from which a beautiful 
extract is taken by Mr Mackenzie, in (he 97th 
number of the £• uiuer, is a pcem of great and 
various excellence. The opening, in which the 
poet descr bes his own state of mind, retiring 
in the evening, wearied, from the labours of 
the day, to moralize on his conduct and pro- 
spects, is truly interesting. The chamber, if 
we may so term it. in which he sits down to 
muse, is an exquisite painting : 

«• There, lanely, by the ingle-cheek, 
I sat and eyed the spewing reek, 
That fcll'd "wi* hoast-provoking smeek 

That auld clay biggin.'; 
An' heard the restless rattons squeak 
About the riggin. " 

To reconcile to cur imagination the entrance 
of an aerial being into a mansion of this kind, 
required the powers of Burns — he, however, 
succeeds. Coila enters, and her coui.tenance, 
attitude, and dress, unlike those of other spir- 
itual beings, are distinctly portrayed. To the 
painting on her mantle, on which is depicted 
the most striking scenery, as well as the most 
distinguished characters, of his native country, 
some exceptions may be made. The mantle of 
Coila, like the cup of Thyrsis,$ and the shield 
of Achilles, is too much crowded with figures, 
and some of the objects represented upon it are 
scarcely admissible, according to the principles 
of design. The generous temperament of Burns 
led him into these exuberances. In his second 
edition he enlarged the number of figures origi- 
nally introduced, that he might include objects 
to which he was attached by sentiments of af- 
fection, gratitude, or patriotism. The second 
Duan, or canto of this f oem, in which Coila 
describes her own nature and occupatious, par- 
ticularly her superintendance of his infant gen- 
ius, and iu which she reconciles him to the char- 
acter of a bard, is an elevated and solemn strain 
of poetry, ranking in all respects, excepting the 
harmony of numbers, with the higher produc- 
tions of the English muse. The concluding 
compared with that already quoted, 



" And wear thou this — 6he solemn said, 
And bound the holly round my head ; 
The polish 'd leaves, and berries red, 

Did rustling play ; 
And, like a passing thought, she fled 
In light away. " 

In various poems Burns has exhibited 1 the 
picture of a mind under the deep impression of 
real sorrow. The Lament, the Ode to Ruin, 
Despondency, and Winter, a Dirge, are of this 
character. In the first of these poems, the 
e ghth stanza, which describes a sleepless night 
from anguish of mind, is particularly striking. 
Burns often indulged in those melancholy viewi 
of the nature and condition of man, which are 



£ See the first Idyilium of Theocritus. 



BURNS.— LIFE. 



to congenial 10 the temperament of sensibility. 
The poem entitled Man leas made to tnourn, 
allows an insta ice of this kind, and The Win- 
ter Sight is of the same description. The 
last is highly characteristic, Loth of the tem- 
per of mind, and of (he condition of Burns. 
it begins with a description of a dreadful storm 
on a°ni°-hl in winter. The poet represents 
himself as lying in bed and listening to its 
Lowing. In lli s situation, he naturally turns 
his thoughts to the ourle * Cattle, ana the 
titty, f iJtcep, exposed to all the violence of 
the tempest. Having lamented their fate, he 
proceeds iu the following : 

" Ilk happing bird— wee helpless thing ! 
'lhat in the merry months o" spring 
Delighted me to hear ihee sing, 

What comes o' thee? 
"Whare will then cow'r thy cluttering wing. 
An ' close ths e 'e ? " 

Other reflections of the same nature occur to 
his mind; and as the midnight moon, " uiuf- 
iled v\ith clouds," casts her dreary light on 
his window, thoughts of a darker and more 
melancholy nature crowd upon him. In this 
state of mmd, he hears a voice pouring through 
the gloom, a solemn and plaintive strain of 
rejection. Tlife mourner compares the fury of 
the elements with that of man to his Lrother 
man, and fcuds the former light iu the lal- 



' See stern Oppression's iron grip, 
Or mad Ambition's gory hand, 
Sending, like blood-hounds lrom the slip, 
Woe, want, and murder, o'er the land.' 



He pursues this train of reflec 


■on through a 


variety of particulars, in the co 


urse of which 


he introduces the following an 




uophe : 





« • O ye ! who, sunk in beds of down, ■ 
Feel not a want out what \uuiselves create, 
Hunk, fur a moment, on his wretched fate, 

Whom friends ana fortune quite disown ! 
Ill-satislied keen .Nature's clamrous call, 

Stretch 'd on his straw he lays him down to 
sleep, 
While thro' the ragged roof and chiuky wall, 

Cbill o'er his slumbers piles the tirifty 
heap. ' ' 

The strain of sentiment which runs through 
this poem is noble, though the execution is 
unequal, aiid the versitication is defective. 

Among the serious poems of Hums, T!ie 
Cotter's Halui day Sight is perhaps entitled to 
the lirst rank. The Farmer s Jugie of Fer- 
gusson evidently suggested the plan of this 
poem, as has beeu already mentioned ; but alter 
the plan was formed, Bums trusted entirely 
to bis own powers for the execution. Fergus- 
eou's poem is certainly very beautiful. It has 
all the charms which depend on rural charac- 
ters and manners happily portrayed, and ex- 

* Ourie, out-lying. Ourie Cattle, Cattle 
that are unhoused all winter. 

+ Sttly is iu this, as iu other places, a term 
of compassion and endearment. 



hibited under circumstances highly grateful to 
the imagination. The farmer's Ingle begins 
with describing the return of evening. The 
toils of the day are over, and the farmer retires 
to his comfortable lire-side. The reception 
which he and his men-servants receive from 
the careful house-wife, is pleasingly described. 
After their supper is over, they begin to talk 
on the rural events of the day. 

•' 'Bout kirk and market eke their tales gaeon, 
How Jock woo'd Jenny here to be his 
bride ; 
And there how Marion, for a bastard son, 
Upon the cutty stool was forced to ride, 
The waefu' scauld o' our Mess John to 
bide. 

The '* Guidame " is next introduced as 
forming a circle round the tire, in the midst of 
her grand-children, and while she spins from 
the rock, and the spindle plays on her " russet 
lap, " she is relating to the joung ones tales of 
witches and ghosts. The poet exclaims, 

"0 mock na this, my friends! but rather 

Ye in life's brawest spring wi' reason 
clear, 
WT eild our idle fancies a' return, 
And dim our uolefu' days wi' bainily 

The mind's aye cradled when the grave is 

In the meantime the farmer, wearied with 
the fatigues of the day, stretches bimself at 
length on the settle, a sort of rustic couch, 
which extends on one side of the tire, and the 
cat and house-dog leap upon it to receive bis 
caresses. Here, resting at his ease, he gives 
his directions to his men-servants for the suc- 
ceeding day. The housewife follows his ex- 
ample, and gives her orders to the maidens. 
By degrees the oil in the cruise begins to fail ; 
the tire runs low : sleep steals on his rustic 
group ; and they move oft' to enjoy their peace- 
ful slumbers. The p^et concludes by Lestow- 
ing his blessing on the " husbandman and all 

This is an original and truly interesting pas- 
toral. It possesses every thing required iu 
*1Dis species of composition. We might have 
perhaps said, every thing that it admits, had 
not Burns written his Cotter's Saturday 

The cottager returning from his labours, has 
no ser\auts to accompany him, to partake of 
his fan?, or to receive his inslructions. The 
circle which he joins, is composed of his wife 
and children only ; and if it admits of less va- 
riety, it affords ui opportunity for represent- 
ing scenes lhat more strongly interest the af- 
ieclions. The youuger children running to 
meet him, and clambering round his knee; 
the elder, returning from their weekly labours 
with the neighbouring farmers, dutifully de- 
positing their little gains with their patents, 
and receiving their father's blessing and in- 
structions; the incidents of the courtship o» 
Jenny, their eldest daughter, " woman 
grown," are circumstances of the most inte- 
resting kind, which are most happily delineat- 
ed ; and after their frugal supper, the repr«- 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



the worship of God, is a picture the most deep- 
ly afieetiiig of anj which the rural muse has 
ever preseuted to the view. Burns was adm.'r- 
ably aoapied to this delineation. Like all men 
of ;:e.uu> he was of the temperament of devo- 
tion, and the powers of memory co-operated in 
this instance v. ith the sensibility of his hear', 
and the fervour of his imagination.* The 
Cotter's SaluraJi, Xi^hl is ie:u;er and moral, it 
is solemn and devotional, and rises at length into 
a strain of grandeur and sublimity, which mo- 
dern poetry has not surpassed. The noble 
sentiments of patriotism with which it con- 
cludes, correspond with the rest of the poem, 
lu 1.0 a^e or country have the pastoral muses 
breaAed such elevated accents, if the Messiah 
of Pope be excepted, which is indeed a pastoral 
in form only. It is to Le regretted that Burns 
did not employ his genius on other subjects of 
the same nam e, which the manners and cus- 
toms of the Scottish peasantry would have am- 
ply supplied. Such poetry is not to be estimat- 
ed by the degree of pieasure which it bestows ; 
it sinks deeply into the heart, and is calculated, 
far beyond any other human means, for giving 
permanence to the scenes ajsd the characters it 
so es_u.sitely describes. f 



* The reader will recollect that the Cotter 
was Burns s father. See p. 22. 

+ A great number of manuscript poems were 
found among the papers of Burns, addres- 
sed to hitu by admirers of his genius, from 
different parts of Britain, as w ell as from Ire- 
land and America. Anif ng these was a poeti- 
cal epistle irom Mr Telford oi Shrew sLury, of 
superior uier.t. It was written in the Dialect 
of Scotland (of which country >ir Telford is a 
native), aud in the versification generally em- 
ployed by our poet himself. Its object is to 
recommend to him o:her sul jects of a serious 
nature similar to that ot the G tier's Saturday 
Xighi ; and the reader will hud that the advice 
is happily enforced by example. It would 
have given the editor pleasure to haTe inserted 
the whole of this poem, which he hopes w 
one day see the light ; he is happy to have ( 
tained, in the meantime, his trend Mr T 
ford's permission to insert the following t 



Pursue, Burns! thy happy =ty:e, 

' Those manner-painting strains," that whili 

They bear me northward many a mile, 

Recall the days, 
"When tender joys, with pleasing smile, 

Bless 'd my young ways. 

I see my fond companions rise, 

I join the happy village joys, 

I see our green hiils touch the skies, 

And] through the woods, 
I hear the river's rush ng uoi=e, 

Itsroarit.g fkcds.* 



Nor could his w 
When up this a 



lent monut 1 so, 
With songs of thine. 



O happy Bard I thy generous flame 



But mony a theme awaits thy muse, 
Fine as thy Cotter's sacred views, 
Then in such verse thv soul infuse, 

With holy air, 
And sing the course the pious* choose, 

With all thy care. 

How with religious awe impress'd, 
They open lay the guiltless breast, 
And youth and age with fears distress 'd, 

Ail due prepare, 
The symbols of eternal rest 

Devout to share. }. 

How down ilk lang withdraw irg hill. 
Successive ciowdsthe vallcvs till, 
While pu'.e relig.ous converse still 

1'eguiles the way, 
And gives a cast to youthful will, 

"To suit the day. 

How placed along the sacred board, 

Their hoary pastor's looks adored. 

His voice with peace and biessing stored, 

Sent from alo%? ; 
And faith, and hope, and joy aricrri. 

And boundless lore. 

O'er this, with warm seraphic glow. 
Celestial be:i:gs, pleased. Low, 
And, whisper 'u, hear the holy tow, 

'Mid gruteful tears; 
And mark, amid such scenes below, 

Their future peers. 



O mark the awful solemn scene !§ 
When hoary winter clothes the plain, 
Along the snowy hills is seen 

Approaching slow, 
jng weeds, the village tram. 
In silent woe. 



Some much-respected brothel 



Along the path ; 

+ A beautiful little rccunt which stands 
lir.ediatelv before, or rather forms a part 

of Shrewsbury castle, a seat of Sir Wiiliam 

Pulteney, Bar"t. 

i The Sacrament, generally administered in 

the cvu.itry parishes of Scotland in the cj*b sir. 
§ A ScoUisb. funeraL 



BURNS.— LIFE. 



71 



And when they pass the rocky howe, 
Where binwood bushes o'er ihetn flow. 
And move around the rising knowe, 
Where far away 

r brae. 

Assembled round the narrow grave, 
While o'er thein wintry tempests rave, 
In the cold wind their grey locks wave, 

As low they lay 
Their brother's body 'mongsl the lave 

Of parent clay. 

Expressive looks from each declare 
The griefs within their bosoms bear, 
One holy bow devout they share, 

Then home return, 
And think o'er all the virtues fair 

Of him they mourn. 



Say how by early lessons taught, 
(Truth's pleasing air is willing caught) 
Congenial to th 'untainted thought, 

The shepherd boy, 
Who tends his flocks on lonely height, 

Feels holy joy. 

Is aught on earth so lovely known, 
On Sabbath morn, and far alone, 
His guileless soul all naked shown 

Before his God — 
Such prayers must welcome reach the throne, 

And bless 'd abode. 

O tell ! with what a heartfelt joy, 
The parent eyes the virtuous boy ; 
And all his constant, kind employ, 

Is how to give 
The best of lear be can enjoy, 

As means to live. 

The parish-school, its curious site, 
The master who can clear indite, 
And lead him on to count and write, 

Demand thy care ; 
Nor pass the ploughman's scUool at night, 
Without a share. 



Nor yet the tcnty curious lad, 
Who* o'er the ingle hings his head, 
And begs o' neighbours' books to read ; 

For hence arise 
Thy country 's sons, who far are spread, 

Baiih bauld and wise. 



* This alludes to a superstition prevalent 
in Eskdale and Annandale, that a light pre 
oedes in the night every funeral, marking the 
precise palh it is to pus*. 



lect, and always rfter the model of the Scottish 
songs, on the general character and moral in- 
fluence of whieh, some observations have 
already been offered. We may hazard a few 
more particular remarks. 

Of the historic or heroic ballads of Scot- 
land it is unnecessary to speak. Burns has no 
where imitated them, a circumstance to be re- 
gretted, sine? iii this species of composition, 
from its admitting the more terrible, as well as 
the softer graces of poetry, he was eminently 
qualified to have excelled. The Scottish songs 
which served as a model to Burns, are almost, 
without exception, pastoral, or rather rural. 
Such of them as are comic, frequently treat of 
a rustic courtship, or a country wedding; or 
they describe the differences of opinion which 
ari>.e in married life. Burns has imitated this 
spec e-, ;.nd surpr.s^ed his models. The song 
begiunin<r, " Husbcnd, husband, cease your 
strife," may be cited in support of this observa- 



The bonny lasses as they spin, 

Perhaps wi' Allan's sangs begin, 

How Tay and Tweed smooth flowing rin 

Through flowery howes ; 
Where Shepherd-lads their sweethe'arts win 

With earnest vows. 

Or may be, Burns, thy thrilling page 
May a' the r virtu, us thoughts engage, 
While playful youth and placid age 

In concert join, 
To bless the bard, who. gay or sage, 

Improves the mind. 



Long may their harmless simple ways, 
Nature's own pure emotion? raise; 
May still the dear romantic blaze 

Of purest love, 
Their bosoms warm to latest days, 

And ave improve. 

May still each fond attachment glow, 

O'er wrods, o'er streams, o'er hills of snow J 

May rugged rocks still dearer grow, 

And may their souls 
Even love the warlock glens which through 

The tempest howls. 

To eternize such themes as these, 

And all their happy manners seize, 
Will every virtuous besom please, 

And high in fame, 
To future times will justly raise 

Thy patriot name. 

While all the venal tribes decay, 
That bask in fk.tery's flaunting ray, 
The noisome verirru of a day, 

Thy vv oiks shall gain 
O'er every mind a boundless sway. 

And lasting reign. 

When winter binds the harden 'd plains, 
Around each hear:h, the hoary swains 
Shall teach the rising youth thy strains, 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



tion. * Uis o her clinic songs are of equal 
merit. la the rural songs of Scotia. d, 
whether humcrojs or tender, the sentiments 
ftre given to particular characters, and very 
general^., the incident are referred to particu- 
lar scenery. This last circamstncce may be 
= ; a distinguishing feature of the 
Scottish son;s, and 0:1 it a considerable part of 
a depends. On all occasions the 
fecime ts, cf whaiever nature. 
in :he chiri^er of the person principally inter- 
er.e;. I: oiebe described, it is not as it is 
observed, but as it is felt ; arid : 
delinea ed under a parties iir as-e: . Neither 

pressed, as in the celebrated ode of Sapphn, the 
model of so many modern -:..r 
gentler emotions of tenderness and affection, 
vhica do r lha lover; but 

permit him to associate his emotions with the 
charms of externa) r._:. 

cents of purity auJ. innocence, as well as of 
lave, [a these respects be ,: e-= : ;.- : F Se : : • 
land are bonoucabiv ci tiajuished from the 
most adtairvd classical compos 
triune k.ud; and by such associations, a va.Kty 
isliveiint 



tioti o'fll 



• WjJ 



c: Gresc 



. 









r - . t -; ' -r _ 

i being particular z?d. Ihe lovers 
= i aioon IVaoiiuir, or 



s between husbands and their 



in her rustic s gs. 

f One or two examples may illustrate his ob- 

i Sat sb song, written about a 
hundred years ago, begins thus : — 

•• On E::;i:k banls, on asu-rmer's night 
A: _-.._,. drove hame, 

I -net my ias-ie, bran and right. 
Come wading barefoot a* her iaae : 

Mv heart g evt fight, I ran. I firing 

- ibouther Hly-nsek, 
£rtdh ss*d and etasped there fa r — 
. b na Beet " 

The lover, who is a I 
relate the hragcage he e 

land traid tj w:n usr heart, sod to persuade 
her to tly with him to the H ._-":. 
!o share h^s fortan?. The seulfmeirta are in 
laem-elves, beautiful. But we fee- them with 



of Horace, ti pictura poesis, is faithfully ob- 
served by these rustic bards, who are guided by 
the same impulse of nature and sensibility 
which influenced the father of epic poetry, on 
whose example the precept cf the Roman poet 
was perhaps founded. By this means the 
imagination is employed to interest the feelings. 
Wh-n we do not conceive distinctly, we do Let 
: r ".y in any human affection ; and 
«e conceive nothing in the abstract 
lion, so useful in morals, and so essential in 
science, must be abandoned when the heart is 
to be subdued by the powers of poetry cr of 
eloquence. The bards of a ruder condition of 
society paint individual objects ; and hence, 
ai;o:ig o:l.er causes, the easy access they ob- 
tain to the heart. Generalization is the vice 
of poets, whose learning overpowers their re- 
nins ; of poets of a refined and scientific age. 

The dramatic style which prevails so much 
in the Scottish songs, while it contributes 
greatly to the interest they excite, also shows 
that they have orirrinated among- a people in 
;es of society. Where this form 
of composition appears in songs of a modern 
date, it iudicates that they have been written 
_..cjeut model, f 



double>rce, while we conceive that they were 
. over to his mistress, whom be 
met ail alone on a summ-r's evening, by the 
hanks of a beautiful stream, which some of cs 
have actually ;een, and which all of os can 
paint to our imagination. Lei lis take another 
example. It is now a nymph that speaks. 
Hear how she expresses herself — 

•« How blythe each morn was I to see 
My swain come o'er 

i the burn, and Hew to me, 
I met him with good wil.'- 

Here is anoth-.r picture drawn by the pencil of 
Nature. We see a shepherdess standing b» >\>e 
side of a. brook, watching i.er lo vet 
sceods the opposite bill. He bounds lightly 
along : he approaches nearer and nearer ; !=e 
leaps the brook, and flies into her arms. It 
the recollection of these circumstances, the 
surrounding scenery becomes endeared to Ihe 
fair mourner, and she bursts into the following 
exclamation : 

"O the broom, the bonnie, bonnie broom, 
Tne croom of :he Cowden-knowes I 

I wish I were with my dear sw 
With his pipe and my ewes." 

Thus the individual spot of this happy inter- 
view is pointed out, and the picture is com 
pieted. 

~ That the dramatic furra of writing ebnrc-'- 
terizes the productions of an early, or. w'-al 
amounts to the same, of a nm> 
society, may be illustrated by a re 
the most ancient composirioas that we knew of. 
the Hebrew scriptures, and the 
Homer. Tne form of dialogue is ■ 
the cid Scottish ballads, evec in narratrM. 
whenever the situation described becomes ioter- 
estin"-. This sometims produces a very strid- 
ing effect, of which an instance may be give:! 
froEa the ballad of Edasi 0' Gor*-*, a co; v.- 



BURNS LIFB. 



73 



tionof thedui 



The Scottish 6ong are of very unequal poet- 
ical merit, and this Inequality otten extends to 
the different parts of the same song. Those 
that are humorous, or characteristic of man- 
ners, have in general the merit of copying na- 
ture ; those that are serious, are tender, and 
often sweetly interesting, but seldom exhibit 
high power, of imagination, whuh indeed do 
not easily hud a place in this species of compo- 
sition. The alliance of the words of the Scot- 
tish songs with the music, has in some in- 
btances given to the former a popularity, which 
otherwise they would never have obtained. 

The association of the words and the music 
of these songs, with tue more beautiful parts of 
the scenery of Scotland, contributes to the 
same etlect. It has given them not merely 
popularity, but permaneii 
the works of man some i 
ity of the works of nature. If, from our im- 
perfect experience of the past, we may judge 

songs of this description are of all others the 
least likely to die- In the changes of language 
they may no doubt suffer change ; but the as- 
sociated strain of sentiment and of music will 
perhaps survive, while the clear stream sweeps 
down the sale of Yarrow, or the yellow broom 
waves on the Cowden Knowes. 

The first attempts of Burns in song-writing 
were not very successful. His habitual inat- 
tention to the exactness cf rhymes, and to the 
harmony of numbers, arising probably from 
the models on which his versification was 
formed, were faults likely lo appear to more 
advantage in this species of composition, than 
in any other ; and we may also remark, that 
the strength of his imagination, and the exu- 
berance of his sensibility, were with difficulty 
restrained within the limits of gentleness, deli- 
cacy, and tenderness, which seem to be assigned 
to the love songs of his nation. Burns was 
belter adapted by nature fcr following in such 



tition apparently of the sixteenth century. The 
ulory of the ballad is shortly this : — '1 he Cattle 
of Rhodes, in the absence of its lord, is attack- 
ed by the robber Edom o" Gordon. The lady 
6lands on her defence, beats off the assailants, 
and wounds Gordon, who in his rage orders the 
castle to be tet on tire. That his orders are 
carried into effect, we learn from the expostu- 
lation of the lady, who is represented as stand- 
ing on the battlements, and remonstrating on 
this barbarity. She is interrupted — 
•• O then bespakeh 



Says, 



e's knee; 

, gie owre this house, 



jomposhions the model of the Grecian than 
of the Scottish muse. By study and practice 
he however surmounted ail these obstacles. 
In his earlier songs there is some ruggeduess : 
but this gradually disappears in his successiva 
efforts ; and some ot his later compcsitiom 
of this kind may be compared, in polished de- 
lieacj, with the finest songs in cur language, 
while in the eloquence of sensibility they sur- 
pass them all. 

The songs of Burns, like the models ho 
followed and excelled, are often dramatic, and 
for the greater part amatory ; and the beauties 
of rural nature are everywhere associated with 
the passions and emotions of the mind-. Dis- 
daining to copy the works of others, he has 
not, like some poets of great name, admitted 
into his descriptions exotic imagery. The 
landscapes he has painted, and the objects with 
which they are embellished, are, Ifa every 
tingle instance, such as are to be found in 

especially when it is comparatively rude and 
naked, the most beau;iful scenery will always 
he found in the valleys, and on the banks ol 
the wooded streams. Such scenery is peculiar- 
ly interesting at the close of a summer ray. 
As we advance northwards, the number of 
the days of summer, indeed, diminishes ; but, 
from this cause, as well as from the mildness 
of the temper ..ture, the attraction of the season 
increases, and the summer night oecomes 
still more beautiful. The greater obliquity 01 
the sun's path on the ecliptic, prolongs the 
grateful season of twilight to the midnight 
hours, and the shades of the evening seem to 
mingle with the morning's dawn. The rural 
poets of Scotland, as may be expected, asso- 
ciate in their songs the expression of passion, 
with the most beautiful of thrir scenery, in 
the fairest season of the year, and generally in 
those hours of the evening when the beauties of 
nature are most interesting. W 



I wad g:e a' my gowd, my childe, 

For ae blast o' the ucstiin wind. 
To blaw the reek lVae thee. ' ' 

The circuinstamiuVity of the Scottish love- 
Bougs, and the dramatic form which prevails 
so generally in them, probably arisen from 
their being the descendants and successors of 
the ancient ballads. In the beautiful modern 
song of Ma.\y of Castle-Cury, the dramatic 
form hui a very happy eft'ect. The same may 
be brtid of Do/taid and Fiora, and C>me under 
»y plaidir, bv the same author, Sir Macniel. 



*A lady, of whose genius the editor enter- 
tains high admiration (Mrs Barbauld), has 
fallen into an error in this respect. In her 
prefatory address to the works of Collins, 
speaking of the natural objects that may be em- 
ployed lo give interest to the descriptions of 
passion, she observes, "they present an inex- 
haustible variety, from the Song of Solomon, 
breathing of cassia, myrrh, and cinnamon, to 
the Gentle Shepherd of Ramsay, whose dam- 
sels carry their miikiug-pails through the Irosls 
and snows of their less genial, but not less pas- 
toral country." 'Ihe damsels of Uum.-ay do 
not walk in the midst of frost and snow. - Al- 
most all the scenes of the Gentle Shepherd are 
laid in the open air, amidst beautiful natural 
obiects, and at t'. e most genial season oi" the 
year. Ramsay introduces' all his acts with a 
prefatory description to assure of this. The 
fuult of the cliuiae of Britain is not, that it 
does not afford us the beauties of summer, but 
that the season of such beauties is compara- 
tively short, and even uncertain. There are 
days and nights, even in the northern division 
of the island, which equal, or perhaps sur- 
pass what are to be found in the latitude of 
Sicily or of Greece. Buchanan, when lie 
wrote his exquisite Ode to May, felt the charm 
as well as the uansientness ofihese h-ppv davsl 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



To all these adventitious circumstances, on 
which sj much cf the effect of poetry depends, 
great attention is paid by Burns. There is 
scarcely a single song of his in which particular 
scenery is not described, or allusions made to 
natural objects, remarkable for beauty or in- 
terest ; ana though his descriptions are not so 
full as are sometimes met with in the older 
Scottish songs, they are in the highest degree 
appropriate and interesting. Instances in proof 
t»f th:s might be quoted from the Lea Rig, 
Highland Mary, the Soldier's Return, Logan 
Water, from ihat beautiful pastoral, Bonnie 
Jean and a great number of others. Occa- 
sionally t!:e force of his genius carries him be- 
yo id the usual bounaaries of Scottish song, 
and -.he natural objects introduced have more of 
the character of suoiiinity. An instance of this 
kind is noticed by ,Mr Syme,* and many others 
might be adduced, 

'• Had I a care on some wild, distant shore, 
Where the winds howl to the wave's dashing 

There wouid I weep my woes, 
There seek mv last repose, 
Till grief my eyes should close, 
Ne'er to wake more." 



In 



ie song, the seene of which is laid ia a 
night, the •' wan moon" is described as 
Ititg behind the white waves ;" iu another, 
"storms" are apostrophized, and colli- 
ded to 'rest in the cave of their slumbers. " 
several occasions, the genius of Burns loses 
of his archetj pea, and 



Mib.i 



In,tai 



this kind aopear in Liberty, a Vision, and in 
his two war- songs, Bruce to his Troops, and 
the Song of Death. These last are of a descrip- 

The martia, songs of our nation are not military, 

the»e songs of Burns with others of a similar 
o the poetry of 



t Cue 



sm Gai 



aat addition to the 
songs of Scotland. In his compositions, the 
poetry equals and sometimes surpasses the 
mus c. He has enlarged the poetical scenery 
of his country. Many of her rivers and moun- 
tains, formerly unknown to the muse, are now 
consecrated bv his immortal verse. Tue Doon, 
the Lugar, the A\r, the N:th, and the Ciudeu, 
will in future, like the Yarrow, the Tweed, aid 
the Tay. be considered as c'.issic streams, and 
their borders will be trod with new and superior 

The greater part of the songs of Burns were 
written after he removed into the county of 
Duaifries. Influenced, perhaps, by habits 
formed in early life, he usually composed while 
walking in the open air. When engaged in 
writing these sonsrs, his favourite walks were 
on the banks of the Nith, or of the Cluden, 
particularly near the ruins of Lincluden Abbey ; 
and this beautiful scenery he has very happily 



Ive fugacis gloria seculi, 
!ve secunda digna dies nota, 
Salve vetusts vitrc imaso, 
El specimen venierrtis iGm ! 
* See pa?? 4S. 



described urider various aspects, as it appears 
during the softness and serenity of evening, and 
during the stillness and solemnity of the moon- 
light night. 

There is no species of poetry, the productions 
of the drama not excepted, so much calculated 
to influence the morals, as well as the happiness 
of a people, as those popular verses which are 
associated with the national airs, and which 
being learnt in the years of infancy, make a 
deep impression on the heart before "the evolu- 
tion of the powers of the understanding. The 
compositions of Bums, of this kind, now pre- 
sented in a collected form to the world, make 
a most important addition to the popular songs 
of his nation. Like all his other writings, 
they exhibit independence of sentiment ; they 
are peculiarly calculated to increase those lie's- 
whicj bind generous hearts to their native soil, 
and to the domestic circle of their infancy : 
and to cherish those sensibilities which, under 
due restriction, form the purest happiness of 
our nature. If in his u. guarded moments he 
composed some songs on which this praise can. 
not be bestowed, let us hope that they will 
speedily be forgotten. In several instances, 
where Scottish airs were allied to words ob- 
jectionable in point of delicacy. Burns has sub- 
stituted others of a purer character. Oa such 
occasions, without changing the subject, he has 
changed the sentiments. A proof of this may 
be seen in the air of John Anderson my Jo, 
which is now un.ted to words that breathe a 
strain of conjugal tenderness, that is as highly 
moral as it is exquisitely affecting. 

Few circumstances could afford a more 
striking proof of the strength of Bums ' genius, 
than the general circulation of his poems in 
England, notwithstanding the dialect in which 
the greater part are written, and which might 
be supposed to render them here uncouth or ob- 
scure. In some instances he has used this 
dialect on subjects of a sublime nature; but in 
general he confines it to semiments or descrip- 
tion of a tender or humorous kind ; and, where 
heiises into elevation of thought, he assumes 
a purer English style. The singular faculty 
he possessed of mingling in the same poem hu- 
morous sentiments and descriptions, with ima- 
gery of a sublime and terrdic nature, ensbted 
him to use this variety of dialect on some occa- 
sions with striking effect. His poem of Tarn 
o' Shanlsr affords an instance of this. There 
he passes from a scene of the lowest humour, 
to situaions of the most awful and terrible 
kind, lie is a musician that runs from the 
lowest to the highest of his keys ; and the use 
of the Scottish dialect enables-bim to add two 
additional notes to the bottom of his scale. 

Great efforts have been made by the inhabi. 
tauts of Scotland, of the superior ranks, to ap- 
proximate in their speech to the pure English 
standard ; and this has made it difficult to write 
in the Scottish dialect, without exciting in 
them some feelings of disgust, which in Eng. 
land are scarcely felt. An Englishman who 
understands ihe meaning of the Scottish words, 
is not offended, nay, on certain subjects, be is 
perhaps pleased with tne rustic dialect, as he 
may be with the Doric Greek of Theocritus. 

But a Scotchman inhabiting his own coun- 
try, if a man of education, and more especially 
if a literary character, has banished sucu 
i*ords from his writings:, and has attempted to 



BURNS LIFE. 



75 



banish them from his speech ; and being 
accustomed to hear them from the vulgar 
daily, does not easily aamit of their use in 
poetry, which requires a style elevated and 
ornamental. A dislike of this kind, is, how- 
ever, accidental, not natural. It is of the 
species of disgust which we feel at seeing a 
female of high birth in the dress of a rustic ; 
which if she be really young and beautiful, a 
little habit will enable us to overcome. A 
lady who assumes such a dress puts her beauty, 
indeed, to a severer trial. She rejects she, 
indeed, opposes, the influence of fashion ; she, 
possibly, abandons the grace of elegant and 
flowing drapery; but her natue charms re- 
main, the more striking, perhaps, because the 
less adorned : and to these shs trusts for fixing 
her empire on those affections over which 
fashion has no sway. If she succeeds, a new 
association arises. The dress of the beautiful 
rustic becomes itself beautiful, and establishes 
a new fashion for the young and the gay. And 
when, in after ages, the contemplative observer 
shall view her picture in the gallery that con- 
tains the portraits of the beauties of successive 
centuries, each in the dress of her respective 
day, her drapery will not devia'e, more than 
that of her rivals, from the siandard of his 
taste, and he will give the palm to her who 
excels in the lineaments of nature. 

Burns wrote professedly for the peasantry of 
his country, and by them* their native dialect is 
universally relished. To a numerous class of 
the natives of Scotland of another description, 
it may also be considtred as attractive in a 
different point of view. Estranged from their 
native soil, and spread over foreign lands, the 
idiom of their country unites with the senti- 
ments and the descriptions on which it is 
employed, to recall to their minds the interesting 
scenes of infancy and youth to awaken many 
pleasing, many tender recollections. Literary 
men. residing at Edinburgh or Aberdeen, 
cannot judge on this point for one hundred 
and fifty thousand of their expatriated country- 
men.* 

To the use of the Scottish dialect in one spe- 
cies of poetry, the composition of songs, the 
taste of the "public has been for some time 
reconciled. The dialect in question excels, as 



i living i 



t of Scot- 



* These observations 
remarks of respectable 
description alluded to. 

the number of Scotchme 

land is not altogether arbitrary 
bably below the truth. It is, in some degree, 
founded on the proportion between the number 
of the sexes in ScolloTid, as it appears from the 

invaluable Statistics of Sir John Sinclair. 

For Scotchmen of this description more parti- 
beginning, T/uir groves o' sweet myrtle, a 
beautiful strain, which, it may be confidently 
predicted, will be sung with equal or superior 
interest, on the banks of the Ganges or of the 
Mississippi, as on thooe of the'Tay or the 
Tweed. 



has already been observed, in the copiousness 
and exactness of its terras for natural objects ; 
and in pastoral or rural songs, it gives a Doric 
s.mplicity, which is very generally approved. 
Neither does the regret seem well founded 
which some persons of taste have expressed, 
that Burns used this dialect in so many other 
of his compositions. His declared purpose 
was to paint the manners of rustic life among 
his " humble compeers, " and it is not easy to 
conceive, that this could have been done with 
equal humour and eflect, if lie had cot adopted 
their idiom. There are some, indeed, who 
will think the subject too low for poetry. Per- 
sons of this sickly taste will find their delica- 
cies consulted in many a polite and learned 
author ; let them not seek lor gratification in 
the rough and vigorous lines, in the unbridled 
humour, or in the overpowering sensibility of 

To determine the comparative mtri, of Burns 
would be no easy task. Many persons after- 
wards distinguished in literature, have been 
born in as humble a s tuation of life; but it 
would be difficult to find any other, who, 
while earning- his subsistence by daily labour, 
lias written verses which have attracted and 
retained universal attention, and which are 
likely to give the author a permanent and 
distinguished place among the followers of the 
muses. If he is deficient in grace, he is dis- 
tinguished for ease as well as energy ; and 
these are indications of the h gher order of 
genius. The father of epic poetry exhibits one 
of his heroes as excelling in strength, another 
in swiftness — to form his perfect warrior, 
these attributes are combined. Every species 
of intellectual superiority admits, perhaps, of 
a similar arrangement. One writer excels in 
force — another in ease ; he is superior to them 
both, in whom both these qualities are united. 
Of Homer himself, it may be said, that like 
his own Achilles, he surpasses his competitors 
in mobility as well as strength. 

The force of Burns lay in the powers of his 
understanding, and in the sensibility of his 
heart ; and these will be found to infuse the 
living principle into all the works of genius 
which seem destined to immortality. His 
sensibility had an uncommon range. He was 
alive to every species of emot on. He is one 
of the few poets that can be mentioned, who 
have at once excelled in humour, in tenderness, 
and in sublimity ; a praise unknown to the 
ancients, and which in modern times is only 
due to Ariosto, to Shakspeare, and perhaps to 
pare the writings of the 



Voltair 



Scottish peasant with the works of these giants 
in literature, might appear presumptuous; 
yet, it may be asserted that he has displayed 
the fool of Hercules. How near he might have 
approached them by proper culture, with 
lengthened years, and under happier auspices, 
it is not for us to calculate. But while we run 
over the melancholy story of his life, it is 
impossible not to heave a sigh at the asperity 
of his fortune ; and as we survey the records 
of his mind, it is easy to see, that out of such 
materials have been reared the fairest and the 
most durable of the monuments of genius. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 



It is impossible to dismiss this Volume* of the 
Correspondence of our Bard, without some 
anxiety as to the reception it may meet with. 
The experiment we are niak ng has uot often 
bten tried ; perhaps on no occasion has so large 
a portion of the recent and unpremeditated ef- 
fusions of a man of genius been committed to 
the press. 

Of the following letters of Burns, a consid- 
erable number were transmitted for publication, 
by the individuals to whom they were addres- 
sed ; but very few have been printed entire. It 
•will easily be believed, that in a series of letters 
written without the least view to publication, 
various passages were found unlit for the press, 
from different considerations. It will also be 
readily supposed, that our Poet, writing uecjly 
at the same time, and under the same feelings 
to different individuals, would sometimes fall 
into the same train of sentiment and forms of 
expression. To avoid, theretore, the t*dious- 
ness of such repetitions, it has been found ne- 
cessary to mutilate many of the individual 
letters, and souiet mes to exscind parts of great 
delicacy-— the uutriulea effus:ons of panegyric 
and regard. Eut though man} of the ieuere 
inted from originals furnished by the per- 









intedfrom hrst draughts, or sketches, found 
among the papers of our Bard. Though in ge 
ntral no man committed his thoughts to his cor- 
respondents w itu less consideration or effort than 
Burnt, yet it appears tlia. in some instances 
he was nissatisfied with his first essays, and 
wrote out his communications in a fairer ehar- 
ac;er, or perhaps in more studied language. 
In the chaos <f his manuscripts, some of the 
original skeict.es were found ; and as these 
sketches, though less per ft .-t, are fairly to be 
considered a» tix ofispring of his mind, where 



* Dr Currie'i 
originally pu 
the following 
coud. 



of Burns' Works was 

_ ... /our volumes, of \sliii;h 

Correspondence formed the se- 



they have seemed in tbemselve* worthy of a 
place in this volume, we have not hesitated to 
insert them, though they may uot always cor- 
respond exactly with the letters transmitted, 
which have been lost or withheld. 

Our author appears at one time to have form- 
ed an intention of making a collection of his 
letters for the amusement of a fr.end. Accord- 
ingly he copied an inconsiderable number of 
iheiu into a book, which he presented to Kobert 
Riddle of Glenriddle, Esq. Among these was 
the account of his life, addressed to Dr Moore, 
and printed in the first volume, t In copying 
from his imperfect sketches (it does not appear 
that he had the letters actually sent to his cor- 
respondents before him) he seems to have oc- 
casionally enlarged his observations, and 
altered his expressions. In such instances hia 
emendations have been adopted ; but in truth 
there are but five of the letters thus selected by 
the poet, to be found in the present volume, the 
rest being thought of inferior merit, or oiher- 
wise unfit for the public eye. 

In printing this volume, the Editor has found 
some corrections of grammar necessary; but 
these have been very few, and such as may be 
supposed to occur in the careless effusions, even 
of literary characters, who have not been in the 
habit of carrying their compositions to the 
pi ess. These corrections have never been ex- 
tended to any habitual modes of expression of 
the Poet, even where his phraseology mav seem 
to violate the delicacies of taste, or the idiom 
of our language, which he wrote in general 
with great accuracy. Some difference wiil 
indeed be found in this respect in his earlier and 
in his later compositions ; ai;tt th's volume will 
exhibit the progress oi hia^slyle, as well as tha 
history of his mind. In the Fourth Edition, 



f Occupying from page 1 to page 17 of ibis 



THE DEATH OF BURNS. 

BY MR ROSCOE. 



A great number of poems have been written on the death of Burn3, some of them of consider- 
able poetical merit. To have subjoined all of them to the present edition, would have been 
to have enlarged it to another volume at least ; and to have made a selection, would have been 
a task of considerable delicacy. 

The Editor, therefore, presents one poem only on this melancholy subject; a poem which lir.s 
not before appeared in print. It is from the pen of one who has sympathized deeply in the 
fate of Burns, and will not be found unworthy of its author — the Biographer of L-jrenzo da 
Aleiiici, Of a person so well known, it is wholly unnecessary for the Editor to speak ; and. 
if it were necessary, it would not be easy for him to find language that would adequately ex- 
press his respect and his affection. 



Rear high thy bleak majestic hill?, 

Thy shelter 'd valleys proudly spread, 
And, Scotia, pour thy thousand rills, 

And wave thy h aths with blossoms red ; 
Eut ah ! what poet now shall tread 

Thy airy heights, thy woodland re'gn, 
Since he, the sweetest bard, is dead, 

That ever breathed the soothing strain ? 

As green thy towering pines may grow, 

As clear thy streams may speed along, 
As bright thy summer suns may glow, 

As gaily charm thy feathery throng ; 
But now, unheeded is the song, 

And dull and lifeless all around. 
For his wild harp lies all unstrung, 

And cold the hand that waked its sound. 

"What though thy vigorous offspring rise, 

In arts, in arms, mj sons excel ; 
Though beauty in thy daughters ' eyes, 

And health in every feature dwell; 
Yet who shall now their praises tell. 

In strains impassioned, fond, and free, 
Since he no more the song shall swell, 

To love, and liberty, and thee. 

With step-dame eye and frown severe 

His hapless youth why didst thou view ? 
For all thy joys to him were dear. 

And all his vows to thee were due ; 
Nor greater bliss his bosom knew, 

In opening youth's delightfi-1 orime, 
Than when thy favouring ear he drew 

To listen to his chanted rhyme. 



Thy 'onelj wastes and frowning skies 

To him were all with rap'ure fraught ; 
He heard with joy the tempest rise 

TLat- waked him to sublimer thought ; 
And oft thy winding dells he sought, [hi 

Where wild flow'rs pour'd their rathe 
And with sincere devotion brought 

To thee the summer's earliest bloom. 



But ah ! no fond maternal smile 

His unprotected jouth enjoy'd, 
His limbs inured to early toil, 

His days with early hardships tried ; 
Ami more, to mark the gloomy void, 
, And bid him feel his miserv, 
Before his infant eyes would glide 

Day-dreams of immortality. 

Yet, not by cold neglect depress 'd. 

With sinewy arm he turn'd the soil, 
Sunk with the" evening sua to rest, 

And met at mon« his earliest smile. 
Waked by his rustic pipe, meanwhile 

The pow'rs of fancy came along, 
And soothed his lengthened hours of toil, 

With native wit and sprightly song. 

-Ah ! days of bliss, loo swiftly fled, 

When vigorous health from labour springs, 
And bland contentment smooths the bed, 

Aid sleep his ready opiate brings ; 
And hovering round on airy wings 

Float the light forms of young desire. 
That of unutterable thines 

The soft and sbadowy hope inspire. 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



New spells of mightier power prepare, 

Bid brighter phantoms round him dance ; 
Let Flattery spread her viewless s:-.are, 

And Fame attract his vagrant glance ; 
Let sprightly Pleasure too advaueo, 

Unveil 'd her eves, unclasp *d her zon6, 
Till, lo?t in love's delirious trance. 

He scorns the joys bis jouth has known 

Let Friendship pour her brightest blaze, 

Expanding all the bloom of soul ; 
And Mirth concentre all her rays, 

And point them from the sparkling bowl ; 
And let the careless moments roll 

In social pleasure uncontined, 
And confidence that spurns control 

Unlock the inmost springs of mind : 

And lead his steps these borers among, 

Where elegance with splendour vies, 
Or Science bids her favour 'd throngs 

To more re6ned sensations rise : 
Beyond the peasant's humbler joys, 

And, freed from each laborious strife, 
There let him learn the bliss to prize 

That waits the sons of polish'd life. 

1 hen, whilst his throbbing veins beat high 
With every impulse of delight, 

Dash from his lips the cup of joy, 

And shroud the scene in shades of nightt 



And let Despair, with wizard light. 
Disclose the yawning gulf below. 

And pour incessant on his sight 

Her spectred ills and shapes of woe : 

And show beneath a cheerless shed, 

With sorrowing heart and streaming eyts 
la silent grief where droops her head, 

The partner of his early joys ; 
And let his infants* tender cries 
His fond parental succour claim 
! And bid him hear in agonies 
I A husband's and a father's name. 

! 'Tis done, the powerful charm succeeds ; 

His high reluctant spirit bends; 
In bitterness of soul he bleeds, 

Nor longer with his fate contends. 
An idiot laugh the welkin rends 

As genius thus degraded lies ; 
Till pitying Heaven the veil extends 

That shrouds the Poet's ardent eyes. 

Rear high thy bleak majestic hills. 

Thy shelter'd valleys proudly spread, 
And, Scotia, pour thy thousand rills, 

And wave thy heaths with blossoms red ; 
But never more" shall poet tread 

Thy airy height, thy woodland reign, 
Since he the sweetest bard is dead 

That ever breath'd .he soothing strain. 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



ROBERT BURNS. 



LETTERS, &c 



No. L 

TO A FEMALE FRIEND. 

WRITTEN* ABOUT THK SEAR 1780. 

1 Verily beleve, my dear E. that the pure 
genuine feelings of love, are as rare in the 
world as the pure genuine principles of virtue 
and piety. This, I hope, will account for the 
uncommon style of alt my letters to you. Hy 
uncommon, I mean, their being written in sUlIi 
a stiious manner, which, to tell you the truth, 
has made me often afraid lest you should t::ke 
me for a zealous bigot, who conversed with his 
mistress as he would converse with his minis- 
ter* I don't know how it is, my dear; for 
though, except vour company, there is nothing 
ou earth that gives me so much pleasure as 
writing to you, yet it never gives me those 
?:iddy raptures so much talked of among lovers. 
i have often thought, that if a well-grounded 
affection be not really a part of virtue, 'tis 
something extremely akin to it. Whenever 
the thought of my E. warms my heart, tv.'ry 
feelingot humanity, every principle of gener- 
osity, kindles in my breast. It extinguishes 
every dirty spark of malice and envy, which 
are "but too apt to infest me. I grasp every 
creature in the anus of universal benevolence, 
and ej^ualU participate in the pleasures of the 
happy, and sympathize with the miseries of the 
unfortunate. 1 assure, you, my dear, I often 
look up to the divine Disposer of events, with 
an eye of gratitude for the blessius- which I 
uope he intends to bestow on me, in bestowing 
you. I sincerely wish that he may bless my 
endeavours to make jour life as comfortable and 
aappy as possible, both in sweetening the 
fougiier parts of my imtur?.l temper, and bet- 
.eriug the unkindly circumstances of my for- 
luuc. This, my dear, is a passion, at least in 
my view, worthy of a man, and I will add, 
worthy of a Christian, The sordid earth-worm 
may profess love to a woman's person, whilst, 
>n reality, his affection is centered in her pock- 
it ; aim the slavish drudge may go a- wooing 
is he goes to the horse-market to choose one 
vho is s'out and firm, and, as we may say of 
til old horse, one who will be a good drudge 
and draw kindly. I disdain tlteir dirty, puny 
ideas. I would be heartily out of "humour 
Ailh myself, if I thought 1 were capable of 
laving so pour a notion of the sex, which were 
le lined to crowji the pleasures of society. 
Poor dc-.iL> '. 1 don't envy lueui their happi- 



ness who have such notions. For my part, I 
propose quite other pleasures with my dear 



No. II. 
TO THE SAME. 

Mr DSAR E. 

I do not remember in the course of your ac- 
quaintance and nrne, ever lo have heard your 
opinion ou the ordinary way of falling in love, 
amongst peo;..e. of our s.-iioii of life: I do not 
meau the persons who proceed in the way of 
bargain, but those whose affection is really 
placed on the person. 

Though I be, as you know very well, but a. 
very awkward lover myself, yet as I have some 
opportunities of observing the conduct of others 
who are much better sklled in the affair of 
courtship than I am, I ofteu think it is owing 
to lucky chance more than to good management, 
that there are not more uuhappy marriages 
than usually are. 

It is natural for a young fellow to like the 
acquaintance of the feinaU-s, and customary for 
him to keep them company when occasion 
scr\es; some one of them is more agreeable to 
him than the rest ; there is something, he 
knows cot what, pleases him, he knows not 
how, in her company. This I take to be what 
is called love with the greatest part of us, and 
i most own, my dear E. it is a hard ganio 
s jell a one a- you iiave to piay when you meet 
with such a lo'.er. You cannot r fuse but ha 
is siacere, and yet though you use him ever so 
favourably, perhaps in a few months, or at 
farthest in a year or two, the same unaccount- 
able fancy may make him as distractedly fond 
of another, whilst you are quite forgot. 1 am 
aware, that perhaps the nej-t lime I have the 
pleasure of seeing you, you may bid me take 
my own lesson home, and tell ine that the pas- 
sion 1 li ive professed for you is perhaps one of 
those transient flashes I have been describing ; 
b'it I hope my dear E. you will do me the 
justice to believe me, when I assure you, that 
the iove I have for you is founded on the sa- 
cred principles of virtue and honour, and bj 
consequence, so long as you coutinue possessed 
of those am able qualities which lirst inspired 
my passion for yon., so long must I continue 
to love you. Believe me, my dear, it is love 
like this alone which can render the married 
state happy. People mny talk of dames aud 



§i 



DIAMOND CAB.jCET LIBRARY. 



raptures as long as they please ; aud a warm j 
fancy with a flow of youthful spirits;, may make 
them feel soniethinsr" like what ihev describe; 
But sure I am, the nobler i'aciifties of the 
mmd, with kinured feelings of the heart, can 
only be the foundation of friendship, and it 
has always been my opinion, (hat the married 
life was only friendship in a more exalted de- 
gree. 

It you will be so good as to grant my wishes, I 
and it should p!e.i=e providence to spare us to 
the lul st periods of life, 1 can ,ook lorward 
aim see. liiat even ilien, though bent down ; 
w.,n wrinkled a<re ; even then, w hen all othtr i 
wprKHj circumstances will be indi 
me, I will regard my E. with the 
affection, ana for this plain reason, because she 
is still possessed of those noble qualities, im- 
proved lo a much higher oegree, which Ltst 
inspired my affection for her, 

"0! happy state, when souls each other 

When love is liberty, and nature law." 

I know, were I to speak in such a style to 
many a girl who thinks herself possessedof no 
sma'l share of sense, she would ih.i.k it ridi- 
eui.us — but die language of the heart is. my 
r E. , the only courtship 1 shail ever use lo 



unmanly in the arts of dissimulation and false- 
hood, that I am surprised they can be used by 
any one in so noble, so generous a passion as 
virtuous love. No, my dear E. I shall never 
endeavour to gain your favour Lv such detest- 
able practices. It vcu will be so sood and so 
generous as to admit me tor jour partner, your 
companion, jour bosom friend through life ; 
there is nothing on this s.de of eternity shall 
give me greater transport; but 1 shall never 
think of purchasing your hand by any arts un- 

— Tthj 



•Ihei 

Lv 

| WC 

• a pel 

bj a ( 
It ' 



■-one: 



, my i 



Which I € 

this ; ib.it 



— , you 

) my hopes by 
r cure me of my fears 



>uld oblige me much if \ 









When I look c 



am sensible tt is vastly aii'.ereut from the on 
nary style of coi;nsh>p but I shall make 
cpoiogy — I know your good nature will excuse 
What your good sense may see amiss. 



No. III. 

TO THE SAME, 

MY EEAR S. 
I have often thought it a peculiarly unlucky 
circumstance in love, that though, in every 
other situation in life, telling the truth is not 
only the safest, but actually by far the easiest 



.lillicl 



epuz. 



- for 



in, than whe 
and his intentions are honourable. I do 
think that it is very difficult for a person 
ordinary capacity to talk of love and fondue 
which are not felt, nod to make vows of c 
stancy aud lidelity, which are never intern 
to be performed, if he be villain enough 
practise such detestable conduct : but to 
man whose heart glows with the principles of 
integrity and truth ; and who sincerely loves a 
woman of amiable person, uncommon reliue- 

such a one, in such circumstances, I can assure 
sou, my dear, from my own feelings at this 
present moment, courtship is a task indeed, 
'ihere is such a number of foreboding fears, 
and distrustful anxieties crowd into my mind 



Wile. 






that what tj speak or 
what lo write I am altogether at a loss. 

There is one rule which I have hitherto 
practised, and which I shall invariably keep 
with you, and flint is, honestly to Jell you the 
plain truth. Ihere is something to mean aud 



m would send 
iient. I shall 
■viour regulat- 
ii perfectly ) by 



only add further, that if a b 
ed (thougn perhaps Lut very 
(he rules of honour and virt.^, . 
voted lo love and esteem you, aud an earnest 
endeavour lo promote your happiness; and if 
these are qua.ities you would wish in a friend, 
in a husband ; I iiope you shall ever bud LhetU 
in your real frieud ana sincere lover. 



to the sa:..e. 

I ought in good manners to have acknowledged 
the receipt of your letter before this time, 
but my heart was so shocked with the con- 
tents of it, that I can scarcely yet coliect tny 
thoughts so as to write to you "on ihe subject. 
I will not attempt to describe what I tell on 
receiving your letter. I read it over and over, 
again and again, and though it was in the po- 
litest language of refusal, still it was peremp- 
tory ; "ycu were sorry you could not make 
me a return, but you wish me " what, without 
you, I never can obtain, "you wish me all 
kind of happiness." It would be weak aud 
unmanly to say, that without you I never can 
be happy ; but sure I am, that sharing life 
with you, would have given it a relish.'that, 
wanting you, I never can taste. 

Your uncommon personal advantages, and 

your superior good sense, do not so much 

strike me; these, possibly in a few instances, 

may be metwith in others ; but that amiabie 

goodness, that tender feminine softness, that 

endearing sweetness of disposition, with all the 

charming offspring of a warm feeling heart — 

these I never again expect to meet with in such 

a degree in ihis world. All these charming 

qualities heightened by an education much be- 

d any thing I have ever met with in any 

nan 1 ever dared to approach-, have marie 

mpression on my heart that I do not think 

world can ever efface. My imagination 

has fondly flattered itself with a wish", 1 d=ra 

not say it ever reached a hope, that possibly I 

ight one day call you mine. I had forme I 

e most delightful images, and my fancy f.nd- 

ly brooded over them ; but now I am wretched 

lor the loss of what I really had no right to 

Kt. I must now llunk no more of you as 

stress, still I presume to ask to be udmit- 

s a friend. As such I wish to be all*) wed 



LURKS.— LE'ITEttS. 



S3 



to w ait on you, and as I expect to remove in 
a few days a little farther off, and you, I sup- 
pose, wiil perhaps soon ieave this place, I wish 
to see you or hear from you soon ; and if an 
expression should perhaps escape me rather 
too warm for friendship, 1 hope you will par- 
don it in, my dear iViiss , (pardon me 

the dear expression for once). . . 



No. V. 

TO MR JOHN MURDOCH, 

SCHOOLMASTER, 

STAPLES INN BUILDINGS, LONDON. 

DRAB SIR, Loc/dee, loth January, 1783. 
As I have an opportunity of sending you a 
letter, without putting you to that expense 
which any production of mine would but ill 
repay, I embrace it with pleasure, to tell you 
that 1 have not forgotten, nor ever will forget, 
the many obligations I lie under to your kind- 
ness and friendship. 

I do not doubt, Sir, but you will wish to 
know what has been the result of all the pains 
of an indulgent father, and a masterly teacher; 
and I wish I could gratify your curiosity with 
such a recital as you would be pleased with; 
but that is what 1 am afraid will not be the 
case. I have, indeed, kept pretty clear of 
vicious habits ; and in this respect, I hope my 
conduct will not disgrace the education 1 have 
gotten ; but as a man ot the world, I am most 
miserably deficient. — One would have thought, 
that bre^I as I have Leen, under a father who 
has figured pretty well as un hun.mc dcs rjetre^ 
I might have been what the world culls a push- 
ing, active fellow ; but, to tell you the truth, 
Sir, there is hardly any thing more my reverse. 
J seem to be one sent into the world to see, 
mid observe; and I very easily compound with 
the knave who tricks me of my money, il 
there he any thing original about hi 



show 



e hu 



;• 1 IklV 



. bdoi 



. difcti 



In 






the joy of my heart is to «• study men, their 
maimer?, and their ways ; ' ' and for this darling 
subject, 1 cheerfully sacrifice every other con- 
sideration. 1 am quite indolent about those 
great concerns that set the bustling busy sous 
of care agog ; and if 1 have to answer for the 
present hour, 1 am very easy with regard to 
any thing lurther. Even the last, worst shift* 
of the unfortunate and the wretched, does not 
much terrify me: I know thai even then my 



ntr* 1 



:tilied by a hoary 

e happy. How- 
ever, I am under no apprehensions about that ; 
for, though indolent, yet, so far as an extreme- 
ly delicate constitution pennies, I am not lazy ; 
and in many things, especially in tavern mat- 
ters, 1 am a strict economist; not indeed for 
the sake of the money, but one of the principal 

* The Inst shift alluded to here, must be the 
condition of an iliucruM beggar. 



pirts in my composition is u kind of pride of 
tiomach, and i scorn to fear the face of any 
man living : above every thing, I abhor as hell, 
the idea, of sneaking in a coiner to avoid a duu 
— possibly some pitiful, sordid wretch, who in 
my heart 1 despise and detest, "lis ihis, and 
this alone, that euaears economy to me. In 
the matter of books, indeed, 1 am very profuse. 
My favourite authors are of the sentimental 
kind, such as bhenskme, pat ticnli^ily his Ele- 
gies ; Thomson ; Man of fitting, a book 1 
prize next to the Bible ; Man of t/ie World ; 
Merne, especially his Sentimental Journey; 
Macphersou's Otsicn, d c. 'lhese are the 
glorious models alter which I endeavour to 
form my conduct ; and 'tis incongruous, 'tis 
absurd, to suppose that the man whose mind 
glows with sentiments lightened up at their 
sacred flame — the man whose heart distends 
with benevolence to all the human race — he 
•« who can soar above this little scene of 
things, "can he descend to mind the paltry con- 
cerns about which the terrajlilial race fret, and 
fume, and vex themselves ? O how the glorious 
triumph swells my heart ! I forget that I am 
a poor insignilicunt devil, unnoticed and un- 

kets, when 1 happen to be in them, rending a 
page or two of mankind, and " catching the 
manners living as they rise," whilst the men of 
business jostle me on every side as an idle en- 
cumbrance in their way. -But I dare say I 
have by this time tired your patieDce ; so I 
shall conclude with begging you to give Mrs 
.Vurdoch— not my compliments, for that is a 
mere common place story, but — my warmest, 
kindest wishes for her welfare; and accept of 
the same for yourself, from, 

Dear Sir, 

Yours, &c« 



[The following is taken from the MS. pros* 
presented by our Bard to Mr Riddel.] 

On rummaging over some old papers, I light- 
ed on a MS. of my early years, in which 1 had 
determined to write myself out, as I was placed 
by fortune among a class of men to whom my 
ideas would have Leen nonsense. I had 
meant that the book should have lain by me, 
in the fond hope that, some lime or other, even 
after 1 was no more, my thoughts would fall 
into the hands of somebody capable of appre- 
ciating their value. It sets off thus : 

Obixrratiens. hints, bon^s, Scraps of Poe- 
try, d-c. by R. Ii._anum who had little an in 
making money, iid still less in keeping it ; but 
was, however a man of some sense, and a great 
deal of honesty, and unbounded good-will to 
every creature, rational and irrational. As he 
was but little indebted to scholastic education, 
and bred at a plough tail, his performances must 
be strongly tinctured with his unpolished rustio 
way of life; but as I believe they are really 
his o-xn, it may be some entertainment to a 
curious observer of human nature, to see how 
a ploughman thinks and feels, under the pres- 
sure of love, ambition, anxiety, grief, with the 
I like cares and pactions, which, however ui\er- 



SI 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



•« of life, operate 
d all tbe species. 
"There are numbers in the world who do 
not want sense to make a figure, so much as 
an opinion of their own abilities, to put them 
upon recording ;heir observations, and allowing 
them the some importance which they do to 
these which appear in print. " — Sher.slone. 



April, 1793. 

Notwithstanding ail that has been sai 

!?jinst love, res^ectm? t>ie follv and weaknes 

t leads a young inexperienced mind into; si 

the high 



Feels all the bitter horrors of his cr.ine, 
Can reason down its agonizing throbs ; 
And, after proper purpose of amendment. 
Can tircnly force his jarring thoughts to peace! 
O, happy ! happy I enviable man I 
O glorious magnanimity of soul: 

March, 1784. 
I have often observed, in the course of my 
experience of human life, that every man, even 
the worst, has something good "about him ; 
though very often nothing else ihan a happy 
temperament of constitution inclining him to 
this or that virtue. For this reason, no man 
say in what degree any other per 



side, himself, | 



n be, 



ith >tr 



tj.lMi, 



;alled 



i thia 



irth de> 



the n 



ssed 01 
imeofraptur 



Aup.sl. 

love, and music, and poetrv ; wd, therefore 
I have always thought a tin- toujh of nU are 



Htr 

For ray own part, I never had the least 
thought or inclination of turning poet, till I 
got once heartily in love : and then rbyme and 
song wire, in a manner, the spontaneous lan- 
guage of my heart. 



pher 


September. 
entirely aeree with that judicious philoso- 
. Mr Smith, in his excellent Theory of 
t! SenHim-nts, iluu reinor-e is the most 


bear 


n. Anj ordinary pitch of fortitude may 



glorious effort of seif-command. 
numerous ills that hurt our peac?, 



mher c 



:e, the 



o deed of mine ;" 
Hut when to ail the evil of misfortune 
This sting is added— "Blame thy foolish self! * 
Or worser far, the pangs of keeu remorse ; 
The torturing, gnawing consciousness of guilt — 
Of guilt, perhaps, where we've involved others; 
The young, the innocent, who fondly loved us. 
Nay, more, that very love their cause of ruin ! 
O burning hell ! in all thy store of tormeuls, 



There's not a 
Lives there a man bo lira), 
heart . 



while his 



wicked. Let any of the sirictest "character for 
regularity of conduct among us, examine im- 
parl 'a!. y how many vices he has never been 
guilty of, not from any ere or vigilance, but 
for want of opportunity, or some accidental 
circumstance intervening; bow many of the 
weaknesses of mankind he has escaped, be- 
cause he was out of the line of such tempta- 
tion ; and, what often, if not always weighs 
more than al! the rest, how much he is indebt- 
ed to the world's good opinion, because the 
world does not know all : I say, any man who 
can thus think, will scan the failings, nay, the 
faults and crimes, of mankind around him, 
wi h a brother's eye. 

I hive ofteo courted the acquaintance of 
that part of mankind commonly known by the 
ordinary phrase »f blackguards, sometimes far- 
ther than was consistent with the safety of my 
characier ; those who, by thoughtless prodiga- 
lity or headstrong passions, have been driven 
to rain. Though disgraced by follies, nay, 

sometimes "stained with guilt, 

• • • . " I have yet found among ibem, 
in not a few instances, some of the noblest 
virtues, magnanimity, generosity, disinterested 
friendship-, and even modesty. 

April. 
As I am what the men of the world, if they 
knew such a man, won d call a whimsical mor- 
tal, I have various sources of pleasure and en- 
joyment, which are, in a manner, peculiar to 
myself, or some here and there such other out. 
of.the- way person. Such is the peculiar pie: 



- I i 



than 



the rest of the year. This, I believe, may be 
partly owing to my misfortunes giving my 
mind a melancholy cast ; but there is something 
even in the 

"Mighty t:n.pest, and t "ie hoary waste 
Abrupt and deep, stietch'd o'er the buried 
earth, " 

which raises the mind to a serious sublimity, 
favourable to every thing great and nobie. 
There is scarcely any earthly oLject gives me 
nore — I do not know if I shou.d call it plea- 
;ure— but something which exalts me, some- 
hin? which enraptures me — than to walk in 
the sheltered side of the wood, or high plantat- 
ion, in a cloudy winter-day, and hear tbe 
itormy wind howling among- the trees, and 
aving over the plain. It is my best sea.-on 
for devotion : my mind is wiapt up in a kind 
of enthusiasm to Wm, who, in the pompuiiH 
language of the Ilsbrew bard, " waika-an ;ha 



El UN?. -LETTERS. 



wings of the wind. " In one of these secsons, 
just \-fier a train of niisfor tit nes, 1 composed 
the following : 



Shenstone finely observes, that love-verses, 
writ without any real passion, are the most 
nauseous of all conceits; anil [ have oilen 
thought that no man can be a proper critic of 
love-compositiou, except he himself, in one or 
more instances, ha\e been a warm votary of 
this passion. As 1 liave been all along a 
miserable dupe to love, and have been led ii.to 
& thousand weaknesses and tollies by it, for 
that reason 1 put the more continence in my 
critical skill, in distinguish. n? toppery, and 
conceit, from real passion and nature. W helber 
the following song will stand the test, 1 will 
not pretend to say, because it is my own ; only 
I can say it was, at the time, genuine from the 
heart. 



I think the whole species of young men 
may Le naturally enough divided into two 
grand classes, which 1 shall call the grove and 
the nitrry ; though, by the bye these terms do 
not with propriety enough express niy ideas. 
The grave 1 shail cast into the Usual division 
of those who are gt.aded on by the love of 
money; and those whose darling wish is to 
make a figure in the world, 'lhe merry r.re, 
the men of pleasure of all denominations; the 
jovial lads, who have too much tire and spirit 
to have any settled rule of action ; but with- 
out much deliberation, follow the strong im- 
pulses of nature ; the thoughtless, the careless, 
the indolent -in particular he, who, with a 
happy sweetness of natural temper, and a 
cheerful vacancy of thought, steal* through life 
— generally, indeed, in poverty and obscurity ; 
but poverty and obscurity are only evils to him 
who can sit gravely down and make a repining 
comparison between his own situation and that 
of others; and lastly, to grace the quorum, such 
as are, generally, those whose beads fire capable 
of all the towerings of genius, and whose hearts 
are warmed with all the delicacy of feeling. 

As the grand end of human life is to culti- 
vate an intercourse with that Being to whom 
we owe life, with every enjoyment that can 
render life delightful ; and to maintain an in- 
tegritive conduct towards our fellow-creatures ; 
that so, by forming piety and virtue into habit, 
we may be lit members for that society of the 
pious and the good, which reason and revela- 
tion teach us to expect beyond the grave : I 
do not see that the turn of mind, and pursuits 
of any son of poverty and obscurity, are in the 
least more inimical to the sacred* interests of 
piety and virtue, than the, even lawful, bustling 
and straining after the world's riches and hon- 
ours ; and 1 do not see but that he may gain 
Heaven as well (which, by the bye, is no mean 
consideration), who steals through the vale of 
life, amusing himself with every little flower 
that fortune throws in his way ; as he who, 
straining straight forward, and perhaps bespat- 
tering all about him, gains some of life's little 



where, nftcr nl!, lie can only ?fp, 
and Le seen, a li'tie mc re conspicuously, than 
what, in the pride of his heart, be is" apt to 
term the poor, indolent devil he has lett Lehiud 



There is a noble sublimity, a beart-irclting 

which shows them to be the work oi an Bbterll 

acl.e to rellect, that such giorious o.u Lards - 
Lards who very probably oweu a j l their talents 
to native genius, yet have deserired tie ex- 
ploits of berries, trip pangs of disappointment, 
and the meltings oi iove with such l.i.e 
strokes of nature that their \er. i^ini., (O 
how mortiiy ing to a bard's vanity ! ) are now 
"buried among the wreck of things when 

O ye illustrious names unknown ! who could 
feel so strongly and describe so well ; the last, 
the meanest of the muxes' train one who, 
though far inferior to v..ur ii.jrhis, ^ evis 
sour path, and with trembling *»<»g «. l( ..i 
sometime, soar after you- a poor rnst.c batd 
unknown, pay this s\ mpathetic pang to your 
memory! Some of you tell us, Willi t ii the 
eharmS of verse, that you have been unfortu- 
nate in the wot id- unfortunate in love ; he too 
has felt the loss of his little fortune, the loss of 



•A. Lik 



the 

ail I 
t him 



.1 hi: 



I the v 
oiatio 



it with sour strength ot niagintiou und flow 
of verse"! May the turf lie lightly on your 
tones! and may you now enjoy that solace and 
rest which this "world seldom gives to the 
heart, tuned to all the feelings of potsv and 
love ! 

Tli is is all worth quoting in my MSS. and 
more than all. 

R. D. 



No. VII. 
TO MR AIKEN. 



sib, Ayrshire, KS6. 

I was with Wilson, my printer, t other day, 
and settled all our by -gone matters Let ween 
us. Alter I had paid him ail demands, I made 
him the offer of liie second edition, on the 
hazard of being paid out of the Ji,sL ci;d rea- 
ditst, which he declines. By his account, (he 
paper of a thousand copies would cost about 
twenty-seven pounds, and tbe printing aboi.t 
fifteen or sixteen : he offers to agree to this 
for the printing, if I will advance for the paper ; 
but (his you know, is out of my power; so 
farewell hopes of a second edition till I grow 
richer! -an epocha whic., I think, will 
arrive at the payment of the British national 
debt. 

There is scarcely any thing hurts me so 
much in being disappointed of my second edi- 
tion, ns not having it in my power to show my 
grat.tude to Mr Dallantyne, by publishing my 



DIAMOND CA3IXET LIBRARY. 



poem of The Brigs of Ayr. I would detest 
myself as a wretch, if' I th^nght I were capa- 
ble, in a *efy long life, of forgetting the honest, 
warm, and tender delicacy with which he enters 
into mv interests. I am sometimes pleased 
null myself in mv grateful sensations; but I 
belieie t .an he whole, I have very little merit 
in it, as my gratitude is not a virtue, the con- 
sequence of rellecion, but sheerly tlie instinc- 
tive emotion of a heart too inattentive to allow 
worldly maxims and views to settle into sellish 
habits. 

I have been feeling all the various rotations 
and movements within, respecting the excise. 
There are many things plead strongly against 
ft ; the uncertainty of getting soon into busi- 
ness, the consequences of my follies, which 
mav perU ps make it impracticable for nie to 
stay at home ; and besides, I have for some 
time been pining under secret wretchedness, 
from causes which you pretty well know — the 
pang of disappointment, the sting of pride, 
with some wandering stabs of remorse, which 
never fail to settle on my vitals like vultures, 
when attention is not called away by»the calls 
of society or the vagaries of the muse. E en 
*n the hour of social mirth, my gaiety is the 
madness of an intoxicated criminal under the 
hands of the executioner. All these reasons 
urge me to go abroad : and to all these reasons 
I have oniv one answer— the feelings of a 
father. This, in the present mood 1 am in, 
overbalances everything that can be laid iu the 
scale against it. 

You may perhaps think it an extravagant 
fancy, but'it is a sentiment which strikes home 
to my very soul : though sceptical in some 
points, of our current belief, vet, I think, I 
have every evidence for the reality of a life be- 
yond the "stinted bourne of our present exis- 
tence : if so, then how should I, in the pre- 
tence of that tremendous Being, the Author 
of existence, how should I meet the reproaches 
of those who stand to me in the dear relation 
of children, whom I deserted in the smiling 
innocency of helpless infancy ? O, thou great 
unknown Power ! thou Almighty God 1 who 
Tiast lighted up reason in mv brenst, and biessed 
me with immortality ! I have frequently wan- 
dered from that order and regularity necessary 
for the perfection of thy works, yet" thou hast 
never left me nor forsaken me ! 

' Since I wrote the foregoing sheet, I have 
seen something of the storm of mischief thiol: - 
ening over my folly-de\oted head Should 
you/'my friends, my benefactors, be successful 
in your applications' for ir.e, perhaps it may not 
be 'in mv power in that way to reap the fruit 
of your friendly efforts. What I have written 
in the preceding pages is the settled tenor of 
mv present resolution ; but should inimical 
circumstances forbid me closing with your kind 
offer, or, enjoying it, only threaten to entail 
farther misery — 

. To tell the truth, I have little reason for 
this last complaint, as the world, in general, 
has been kind to me, fully up to my deserts. 
I was, for some time past, fast getting into the 
pining distrustful snarl of the misanthrope. I 
saw myself alone, unfit for the stru/gle of life, 
shrinking at every rising cloud iu the chance- 



directed atmosphere of fortune, whil*, all de- 
fenceless, I looked about in vain for a cover. 
It never occurred to me, at least never with the 
force it deserved, that this world is a busy 
scene, and rutin a creature destined for a pro- 
gressive struggle ; and that, however 1 might 
possess a warm h-art and ir.oflet.sive manners 
(which last, by the bye, was rather more than 
1 could well boast,) s'tiil, more than these pas- 
sive qualities, there was something to be timie. 
When all uiy school-fellows and youthful com- 
peers (those misguided few excepted, who 
joined, to use a tientoo phrase, the i alJachores 
of the human race), were striking off with 

other of the many paths of busy life, 1 was 
" standing idle in the market place," or only 
left the chase of the buttertly from flower to 
flower, to hunt fancy from whim to whim. 

Ycu see, Sir, that if to know one's errors 
were a prohabili'y of mending them, I stand a 
fair chance; but, according to the reverend 
Westminster divines, though conviction must 
precede conversion, it is very far from always 
implying it.* 



TO MRS DUXLOP. OF DUXLOP. 

MADAM, Ayrshire, 1785. 

I am truly sorry I was not at home yesterday, 
when 1 was so much honoured with your order 
for my copies, and incomparably more by the 
handsome compliments you are pleased to pay 
my poetic abiiiiies. I am fully persuaded that 
there is not any class cf mankind so feelingly 
alive to the titillatiqus of applause as the sons 
of Parnassus ; nor is it easy to conceive how 
the heart of the poor bard dances with rapture, 
when those whose character in life gives them 
a right to be polite judges, honour him with 
their approbation. Had you been thoroughly 
acquainted with me. Madam, you could" not 
have touched my darling heart-chord more 
sweetly than by noticing my attempts to cele- 
brate your illustrious ances'tor, the Saviour of 
his Country. 

" Great, patriot hero! ill requited chief" ! 

The first book I met with in my early years, 
which 1 perused with pleasure, was The Life 
of Hannibal ; the next was 77je History of Sir 
WUliam W-iace; for several of my earlier 
years I had few other authors ; and many a 
solitary hour have 1 stole out, after the labori- 
ous vocations of the day, to shed a tear over 
their glorious but unfortunate stories. In 
those boyish days I remember, in particular, 
being struck with that part of Wallace's story 



where these lines o 






+ This letter was evidently written under 
the distress of mind occasioned by our Poet s 
separation from Mrs Burns, 



burn?.- 

« Syne to the Legk n wood, when it was late, 
To make a silent and a -afe retreat. " 

I choee a fine summer Sunday, the only day 
my line oi' Life allowed, and Walked half a dozen 
of* miles to pay my respects to the Legleu 
wood, with a^ tmich devout enthusiasm as ever 
pilgrim did to Loretto ; and, as I explored 
every den and deli where I could suppose mv 
untryman to have lodged, 1 recoiled 
then I was a rhymer), thai my heari 
rith a wish to be aide to make a aoiig 
5 equal to his merits. 



(for e 



No. IX. 
TO MRS STEWART OF STAIR. 

MADAM. 178(5. 

The hurry of my preparations for going abioad 
lias hindered me from perform! 
so soon as 1 intended, I have 
parcel of sou- 



Crept 



3 a rrie 



Perhaps 

being an adequate judge- 
otEUrick Bank*, you wi 
pvioty of exposing much 
1 think, myself, Tt has s 
tolerable description of ot 

piece*"' elf N«i3v*& 



i be i 



aware, madam, what task the 
assign me in this letter. The 
when any of the great c .ndescend 



vith the iuc 



The 



high i 



mid actions, should be recounted with the most 
exaggerated description. This, madam, is a 
task for whfcll I am altogether unfit, besides 
a ceruin" disqualifying pride of heart, 1 know 
nothing of your connections in life, and have 
no access to where your real character is to be 
found — he company of your compeers : and 
more, I am afraid that even the most refined 
adulation is by no means the road to vour good 
opinion. 

One feature of your character I shall ever 
■with grateful pleasure remember- the recep. 
tion I got, when " ' 



I i 



i little acqua 



ited v 



politeness ; but I know a good deal of bei 
lencc of temper and goodness of heart. Sure- 
ly, did those in exalted stations know how 
happy they could make some classes of their 
inferiors by condescension and affability, they 
would never stand so high, measuring out with 
every look the height of their elevation, but 
condescend as sweetly as did Mrs Stewart of 



St a r 



* Miss A 

t The song inclosed is that given in the Life 
of our Poet, beginning, 
, Tw<m e'en- the dewy fields w*re green, &«. 



No. X. 

DR ELACKI.OCK 



THE REVEREND MR G. LOYVRIE. 



\ number of 
i reading the 
poems ; at last, however, I have finished that 
pleasing perusal. Many instances have I seen 
of Nature's force and benelicence exerted under 
numerous and formidable disadvantages; but 
none equal io that with which you have been 
kind enough to present me. There is a pathos 
and delicacy in his serious poems, a vein of 

which cannot be too much admired, nor too 
warmly approved ; and I think I shall never 
he book without feeling my astonishment 



wed i 



ised. 1 1 



have expressed my approb; 
whether from declining lifi 
depression of spirits, k is at 
power to accomplish that ag 

Mr Stewart, Professor Of 
University, had formerly read 



i to 
; but 






the 



not, I n 



nh l.'r Blair, but w 



have liitl 

take cure lo have the poems communicated to 
him by the intervention ol some mutual friend. 
It has been told me by a gentleman, to whom 
1 showed the performances, and who sought a 
copy with diligence and ardour, that the whole 
impression is already exhausted. It were, 
herefore, much to be wished, for the sake of 



I he y 



lh.ll | 



i edit: 



Jiatily. 



han the forme 
be printed ; as it appears c 
sie merit, and the exertion of tile author'* 
friends, might give it a more universal circula- 
tion than any tiling of the kind which has been 
published witaiu uiy memory. J 



No. XL 

FROM SIR JOHN WIHTEFORP. 

fclR, Edi.,Lur<rh, -XUi B-ccm!-cr, 1 7SfT. 

received your letter a few days ago. I uo 
ot pretend to much interest, but what I have 
shall be ready to esert in procuring the at- 



$ The reader will perceive that this is the 
letter which produced the deterininniiou of our 
Bard to give up his scheme of going to the 
West Indies, and to try the fate of a new edi- 
tion of his poems in Edinburgh. A copy of 
th:s letter was sent by Mr Loyvrie to Mr 6. 
Hamilton, and by him communicated to llttrue, 
among whose papers it was found. 






IBRARY. 



*s.ir.T>em of any object you hr.Te in vew. Your 

■ ■ msn (forgiTe nv. 
order), as well as a poe', "e 
tiiink, to lie assistance cf every 
A .- c I have been told yo'n wc^h-d to be 

tion, wbieth T it would not be more cesiraDle, 
if a sum could be raked by sub- e 
second edition of vour poems, ti> la^ it out in 
■ af a *nia;l farm. I an* persuaded 
it woo, d be a iine of iif? much r 

; = , and in the end more satisfac- 
tmry. Wh a you have . : - -. _ .- ;• - r 
know, a;,d whatever yoa determine upon, I 
will erjdeavocr to promote ss far as my abili- 
y.'t. Willi coa.ptiuients*to mv 
friend ih? doctor, I are, 

r ,-iand well wisher, 

JOHN V.HIfEFORD. 



FROM , 

D'AR sir, 221 Oeceiftfer. 17>6 

I l»st week rjoeived a letter from Dr Mack- 
lock, in wbi;u he expresses a ce ; f r; r ; 
; i rray lose no 
time in waiting upon him, saoold you not yet 
kave seen him. 

: hear, from all corners, of your 
ani I wish and el 

h ihar by the new publication. 
lint, as a friend, I warn you to prepare to 
meet with your shore of detraction and eavy — 
a train that aiwavs accompany great roea. 
For your comfort, I am in grra; "hopes that the 
number of your fr ends and admirers will in- 
crease, aud that you have some chance cf 

:.- even • • • • • patronage. 
Now, my friend, su.-h rapid success is very 

and do yoa think yoa - : : ■ 
i ..; : : / ; Sering applause acd a fu;l 

p tSSe ! Remember Solomon's advice which 
He spoke from experience, "stro^s-er is he 
that conquers." &c Keep fast bold of your 
rural simplicity and purity, like Telemachus. 
s _ii, in Calypso's isle, or even in 
that of Cyprus. I hope .yon have also Minerva 
with you I need rut ten ion how much 
a mod-st diffidence and invincible temperance 
sijrn the most shicir.g taleats, and elevate tbe 
mind, and exalt and refiae the imag inatu>n 

I hope yoa will not im^ine I speak from 

I Ir-.Ti ; - - 1 rO-^x 

from love and good report, and good opinion, 
and a strong ces re to s-?e you shine ss much 
in the rWTjhiar as ycu have done in the shade, 
and in the practice as you do in the theory of 
▼irtue. This is my prayer, in return for your 
elegant composition in ver=e. All here join in 
compliments, and good wishes for jour further 



- 

y . xnt. 

TO MR CHALMERS. 

E. . . V L ., -2::\D:c. I ."86. 

JIY DEAR TRIS^D, 

•r I have sinned the sin for srbich 
.-.rdiyany forgiveness — iajntiiade to 
p— in not writing yoa sooner; but of 
aii men Itvir.g. I had in'enaed to send yoa an 
entertaining letter; and by all tbe pioddiag, 
I stupid powers, that in uedding eoneeted nia- 
je-ty preside over the dull routine of busine*! 
— a heavily solemn oath ibis ! — I an, and have 
ben eer * rue I came to Edinburgh, as unfit 

men.ary on the RertlatioTU. 

To make you same amends for what, before 
ycu reach this paragraph, you will Lave suffer- 
ed, I inclose you Iwo poems I bave carded 
and spun since I passed G.cr.ruck. One blank 

in the address to Edinburgh, " Fair B ? 

is the heavenly Mis- Burce:, daaghtez to Lord 
Monboddo, at whose house I bave bad tbe 
honour to be more than oace. There has not 
been any thing nearly like her, in all tbe com* 
binations of beauty, grace, and goodness, rbe 
gTeat Creator has' formed, sines 31 ikon's Eve 
on the first day of her n ! 

I have sen: you a par,ei of subset 
and hare written to Mr Bal'.entii.e and Mr 
Aiken to call on yoa for some of them, if they 
want them. My direction is — Care of Andrew 
Bruce, mereha.it, Br.c; 



TO THE EARL OF EGLIXTOX. 

■ 8 LOKB, Edinburgh, January, 17S7. 
As I have bat slender pretensions to puiloso. 
pby I cannot rise to tl;e exalted ideas of a 
citizen of tbe world; but bave a 
tional prejudices which, I believe, glow peca- 
iiar.y Strang in the breast of a Sect, man. 
T.-ere is scarcely any thiixg 'o which I am so 
feelingiy alive, as the honour and 
my country ; and. as a poet, I have no higher 
- ■ £ her soris and riaugh- 
s ration in the veriest 
shades of life; but never did a heart part 
more ardently than mine, to be distinguished : 
though, till very lately, I locked ia ■ 
side for a ray of light. It is easy, then, to 
guess bow much I was gra ined with the cuua- 
tenance and approbation of one of my country 's 
most illustrious sons, when Mr Wauchope 
called on me yesterday, on the part of your 
lordship. Your munificence, my lord, cer- 
tainly deserves my very grateful acknowledg- 
ments ; but your patronage is a bounty pecu- 
liarlv suited to my feelioes. 1 am not master 
enough of the etiquette of life to know whether 
in troubling 
your lordship with my thanks ; but my heart 
whispered me to do iu From the emotions 

foul I do it. Seifi- : 

ir-cspsble of ; and mercenary set- 






BURNS, -LL'JTiTiH. 

my head— I a 



No. XV. 
TO MRS DUNLOP. 

MADAM, Edinburgh, January 15, 1787. 
Yours, of the 9th current, which 1 am (his 
moment honoured with, is a deep reproach to 
roe ioi ungrateful neglect. 1 will tell you the 
real truth, for I am miserably awkward at a 
f.b: 1 wished to have written to Dr Moore 
before I wrote to you ; but though, every day 
since I received yours of December 30th, the 
idea, the wish to write him, has constantly 
pressed on my thoughts, yet I could not for 
my soul set about it. I know his fume and 
character, and 1 am one of " the sons of little 
Bien. " To write him a mere matter-of fact 
affair, like a merchant's order, would be dis- 
gracing the little character I have ; and to write 
the author of The Vicic of Society and Man- 
ners a letter of sentiment— 1 declare every 
artery runs cold at the thought. I shall try, 
however, to write him to-morrow or next day. 
His kind interposition in my behalf I have al- 
ready experienced, as a gentleman waited on 
me the other day, ou the part of Lord Eglin- 
ron, with ten guineas by way of subscription 
for two copies of my next edition. 

The word you object to ill the mention I 
have made of my glorious countryman and 
your immortal ancestor, is indeed borrowed 
from Thomson ; but it does uot strike me as 
an improper epithet. I distrusted my own 
judgment on your finding fault with it, and ap- 
plied for the opinion of some of the Literati 
here, who honour me with their critical stric- 
tures, and they all allow it to be proper. The 
song jou ask 1 cannot recollect, and I have not 
a copy of it. 1 have not composed any thing 
on the great Wallace, except what you have 
seen in print, and the inclosed, which 1 will 
print in this edition.* You will see I have 
mentioned some others of the name. When 1 
composed my Vision, long ago, I had attempt- 
ed a description of Kyle, of which the addi- 
tional stanzas are a part, as it originally stood. 
My heart glows with a wish to be able to do 
justice to the merits of the SotiWur of his 
Country, which sooner or later, I shall at least 
attempt. 

You are afraid I shall grow intoxicated with 
my prosperity as a poet. Alas ! madam, [ 
know myself and the world too well. I do not 
mean any airs of affected modesty ; I am will- 
ing to believe that my abilities deserved some 
notice; but in a most enlightened, informed 
age and nation, when poetry is and has been 
the study of men of the tirst natural genius, 
aided with all the powers of polite learning, 
polite books, and polite company — to be drag- 
ged forth to the full glare of learned and polite 
observation, with all my imperfections of awk- 
ward rusticity and crude unpolished ideas on 



* Sta::zas in the Vision, beginning third 
stanza, "By stately tower or palace fair," 
and ending with the lirst dtuui. 



sure you, madam, I do not dis- 
tell you ( tremble for the con- 
sequences, 'lhe novelty of a poet in my ob- 
scure situation, without any of those advan- 
tages which are reckoned necessr.ry for that 
character, at least at this time of day, has 
raised a partial tide of public nutice, which has 
borne me to a height where I am absolutely, 
feelingly certain, my abiJili<rs are inadequate to 
support me ; and too surely do 1 see that time 
when the same tide will leave me, and recede, 
perhaps, as far below the mark of truth. 

Your patronising me, and interesting your- 
self in my fame ana character as a poet, 1 re- 
joice in ; it exalts me in my own idea ; and 
whether you can, or cannot aid me in my sub- 
scription is a trifle- Has a paltry subscription- 
bill any charms to the heart of a bard, compar- 
ed with the patronage of the descendant of the 
immortal Wallace ? 



TO DR MOORE. 

sir, 1787. 

Mrs Dunlop has been so kind as to send me 
extracts of letters she has had from you, where 
you do the rustic bard the honour of noticing 
him and his works. Those who have felt the 
anxieties and solicitudes of authorship, can 
only know what pleasure it gives to be noticed 
in such a manner by judges of the first charac- 
ter. Your criticisms, sir, I receive with reve- 
rence ; only 1 am sorry they mostly came too 
late; a peccant passage or two, that 1 would 
certainly have altered, were gone to the press. 

The hope to be admired for ages is, in by 
far the greater part of those even who are au- 
thors of repute, an unsubstantial dream. For 
my part; my first ambition was, and still my 
strongest wish is, to please my compeers, the 
rustic inmates if the hamlet, while ever-chang- 
ing language and manners shall allow me to be 
relished and understood. I am very willing to 
admit that I have some poetical abilities ; and 
as few, if any writers, either moral or poetical, 
are intimately acquainted with the classes of 
mankind among whom 1 have chiefly mingled, 
I may have seen men and manners in a differ- 
ent phasis from what is common, which may 
assist originality of thought. Still I know 
very well the novelty of my character has by 
far the greatest share in the learned and polite 
notice 1 have lately had; and in a language 
where Pope and Churchill have raised the 
laugh, and Shenstone and Gray drawn the tear 
— where Thomson and Beattie have painted 
the landscape, auc Lyttleton and Collins de- 
scribed the heart, I am not vain enough to hope 
for distinguished poetic fame. 



FROM DR MOORE. 



sa 



DIAViJN'D CAiil.NET LIBltAKY. 



find I have reason *o complain of my friend 
Mrs Duulop for transmitting to you extracts 
from my letters to her, by much too Freely and 
too carelessly written for your penpal. I 
must forgive her, however, in consideration of 
her good intention, as \ou will forgive me, I 
hope, for the ♦recdom'l use with Certain ex- 
pressions, in consideration of my admiration 
of the poems in genera!. If I may judge of 
th6 author's disposition from his wor,-s, with 
a!l the otheT good qualities of a poet, he has 
not the i ritabie temper ascribed to that race 
of men, by one of their own number, whom 
you have the happmess to resemble i:i e;;=e 
and curious fr-'ic it -j of expressi n. Indeed the 
poetical beauties, however original and bril- 
liant, and lavishly scattered, are not ali I ad- 
mire in jour works; the love of your native 
country, that feeling sensibility to all the ob- 
jects of humanity, and the i::deoe'.ident spirit 
which breathes through the whole, give me a 
most favourable impression nt %■ e poet, and 
have made me often regret that I did not see 
the poems, the certain eifect of which would 
have been my seeing the author last summer, 
■when I was louger in Scotland than 1 have 
been for many years. 

I rejoice verv sincerely at the encourage- 
ment you receive at Edinburgh, and I think 
you peculiarly fortunate in the patronage of 
l>r Blair, who, 5 am informed, interests him- 
self very much for you. I beg to be remem- 
bered to him : nobody can have a warmer re- 
gard for that gentleman than I have, which, 
independent of the worth of his character, 
would be kept alive by the mem.ry of 
friend, the late ?.ir George 



Before I received vour letter, I sent inclosed 

in a letter to :_ , a sonnet by Miss Wil 

liams, a young poetical lady, which she wn--e 
on- reading your Mountain-Daisy; perhaps it 

j'have been trvinjr to add to the number of 
your subscribers; but I find many of toy ac 
quaintance are already among them. I have 
only to add, that with every sentiment of es- 
teem, and most cordial good wishes, 



While soon the garden's flaunting flowers de> 



A poet drew from heaven, shall n< 
Ah, like lht;t lonely flower the poet ] 

'Mid penury's bare soil and bitter 
Be felt each storm that on the 
blows, 

Nor ever knew the shelter of the vale, 
By genius in her native vigour nursed, 

On nature with impassion 'd look he gazed ; 
TT.en through the cloud of adverse fortune 

Indignant, and in lieht unborrow'd blazed. 
Esotia i from rude affliction shield thy bard. 
His heaven-taught numbers Fame herself 
will guard. 



TO DE. MOORE. 
Edinburgh, loth Ftirucry, 1787. 

E EVER END SIE, 
Pardon my seeming neglect in delaying so 
iong to acknowledge the honour you have dune 
me, in your kind notice cf me. January 23d. 
Not many months ago, I knew no orirer em- 
ployment th-.n following the plough, norcouid 
boast any thing higher than a distant ac- 
quaintance with a country clergyman. Mere 
greatness never embarrasses me": I have no- 
thing to ask from the great, and Z do net fear 
their judgment ; tr:t genius, polished by learn- 
ing, and at its proper point of elevation in the 
eye of the world, this of late 1 frequently meet 
with, and tremble at its approach. I scorn 
the ar!eclat!uii of seeming mode.-tv to cover 
self-conce 1. That I haveVcme merit I do not 
deny; but 1 see with frequent wring g 
heart, that the novelty of l'ny character, and 
the honest national prejudice of my country- 
men, have borne ir.e to a heigh; altogether 
untenable to my abilities. 

For the honour Miss W. has done me, 
plea-e, Sir, rrturu hi-r in my name, my tr.ost 
grateful thanks. I have more than once 
thought of paying her in kind, but have 
hitherto quitted' tiie idea in hopeless despon- 
dency. I had never before heard of her : but 
the other day I got her poems, which, for 
several reasons, some belonging to the head, 
and others the offspring of the heart give me a 
great deal of pleasure. 1 have little pre 
.-ions to critic lore: there are, I think, 
characteristic features in her poetry the un- 
fettered wild flight of native genius, and the 
querulous, sombre tenderness of " time-settlea 



what pleases me, often without 



I only kn ( 

being able to tell v 



No. XIX. 

FROM OR MOORE. 
CiJ.rd Sired, SSth February, KS 7. 
r.EAit sir. 
Your letter of the loth gave me a great deal of 
pleasure, it is not surprising thr.t you improve 
in correctness and taste, considering where 
yc.u have been for some time past. And I dare 
swear there is no danger of your admitting any 
polish wh:ch might weaken the vigour of vour 
native powers. 

I am glad to perceive that you disda.n tne 
nauseous affectation of decrying your own 
merit as a poet — an affectat on which is dis- 
played with most ostentation by those who 
have the greatest share of self-conceit, and 
which only adds undeceiving falsehood to 
gusting vanity. For you to deny the merit 
of your poems would be arraigning the fixed 
opinion of the public. 

As the new edition of my Fiftf cf Society 
is not yet ready, I have sent you the former 
edition, which", I beg jou will accept as a 



BURXS. -LETTERS. 



small tnarR of my esteem. It 13 sent by sea, 
to the care of Mr Creech; and, along" with 
these four volumes for yourself, 1 have also 
sent my Medical Skttchts, in one volume, for 
my friend Mrs Dunlop of Lunlop : this you 
will he so obliging as to transmit, or, if )cu 
chance topass soon by Dunlop, to g.ve to her. 
I am happy to hear that your Mibscription is 
bo ample, and shall rejoice at every piece of 
good fortune that befalls you : for you are a v ery 
great favourite in my family ; and this is u 
higher compliment than perhaps you are aware 
of. It includes almost all the professions, and 
of course is a proof that your wr tings are 
adapted lo various tastes and situations. Mjf 
youngest son, who is at \\ inchester school, 
writes to me that he is translating some stanzas 
of your Halkut'tn into Latin verse, for the 
benefit of his comrades. This union of taste 
partly proceeds, r.o dcubt, from the cement of 
Scottish partiality, with wLicb they are ail 
somewhat tinctured. Even icur translator, 
who left Scotland too early in life for recollec- 
tion, is not w ithout it. 



TO THE EARL OF GLEXCAIRX. 



v to see t 
1 "Lun. 



Edinburgh, ] 7S7. 
a profile of jour lordship, 
s to be got in town ; but 



: U.C 



ihs 



Uended to lit 
below a picture cr profile of your lordship, 
could 1 have been so happy as to procure one 
with any thing of a likeness. 

As 1 will scon return to my shades, I want- 
ed to have something like a material object for 
my gratitude ; I wanted to have it in my power 
to say to a friend, There is my noble patron, 
my genero'is benefactor. Allow me, my lord, 
to publish these verses. I conjure your lord- 
fchip by the honest throe of gratitude, by the 
generous wish of benevolence, by ail the powers 
and feelings w hich compose the magnanimous 
mind, do not deny me this petition.* 1 owe 
to your lordship ; and what has not in some 
instances always been the case with me, the 
weight of the obligation is a pleasing load. 1 
trust, 1 have a heart as independent as your 
lordship's, than which 1 can say nothing more : 
and I would not be beholden to favours that 
would crucify my feelings- Ycur dignified 
character in life, and manner of sUj porting 
that character, are flattering to my pride; and 
I would be jealous of the purity of niy grateful 
attachment, where I was under the patronage 
of one of the much favoured tons of fortune. 

Almost every poet has celebrated his patrons, 
particularly when they were names dear to 
fame, and illustrious in their country ; allow 



*■ It does not appear that the earl granted 
this request, nor have the verses alluded to been 
found among the MSS. 



, then, mv lord, if you think the verses hn 
rinsic me/it, lo tell' the world how much 
,e the honour to be 

Your lordship's highly indebted, 
And e\ er gi ateiui humble aei van 



Ko. XXI. 
TO THE EARL GF BrCHAX. 



shall ever grateful y remember: 

"Praise from thv lips 'tis mine with joy to 
boast, 
They best can give it who deserve it mot. " 

Your lordship touches the darling chord of 
my heart, when you advise me lo fire my muse 
at Scottish story "and Scottish scenes. I wish 
for nothing more than to make a leisurely pil- 
g rim age through my native country ; to sit and 
mute en ibise once hard-contended fields where 
Caledonia, rejoicing, saw her bloody lion borne 
through broken ranks to victory and fame ; and, 
catching the inspiration, to pour the deathless 
names in song. Rut, my lord, in the midst of 
these enthusiastic revcr t"s, a leng-visaged/tiry, 
moral looking phantom strid 



vords, " I, "Wisdom, dwell with piU' 

This, my lord, is unanswerable, 
eturu to my humble station, and wo< 
ic muse in my wonted way al ihe plo 

' ipsoflite' 






thai 






in , 



which 1 boast my hi. lb, and gratitude U 
her distinguished sons, who have honoured me 
±0 much with their patronage and approbation, 
shall, while stealing through mj humble 
shades, ever distend my besom, and at times 
draw forth the swelling tear. 



Ext. Property in/vevr rf Mr Robert Enrns, 
loercci end kiep up a Htacsiont in n.eu.ory 
of Pott Fergusson, 17S7. 

Scssior.-houte, within the Kirk vf Ca- 
tcr.gate, the tvei.il/-siroiid day ct be- 
1 Iruc.ry, cue iKoutcnd ttien hui.dted 



yai 






rf the Kirk and Kirk- 



Which day, the treasurer to the said funds 
pr<duced a letter from Mr Robert Burns, of 
date the sisth current, wh ch was read, and 
appointed to be engrtsscd in their sedetunt- 
book, and of which letter the tenor follows : 
"To the honourable L'ailies of Canongate, 
Edinburgh. Gentlemen, I am sorry lo be told 
that the remains of Robert r erguss'on, the so 
justly celebrated poet, a man whose talents, tor 
ages to come, wiil do honour to our Caledonian 
name, lie in your church-yard, among the ig- 
noble dead, unnoticed anu unknown. 



:t 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



" Some memorial to direct the steps of the j 
lovers of Scottish suns, when they wi-u io shed 
a tear over the '-narrow bouse" of the brd 
who is no more, is surelv a tribu'e due t< 
Fer2-us=on's nrinmy : a triouta I vvi,h to hav, 
the honour of paying. 

U I petition you; then. Gentlemen, to per- 



ches, 



l lav 



lole 



v\er his revered 
ble property to bis 
he honour to be> 



deathless fame. 

Gentiemen, vuur ver, hnUe servant, (j 

B^scribitar,) "ROBERT BURNS." 



Jlr Burns, and the propriety of his request, 
did, and hereby do unanimously errant power 
and liberty to ihe said Robert Burns to erect 
a headstone at the grave of the sa.d Robert 
Fereusson. and to keep up and preserve the same 
to his memory in ail time coming. Extracted 
forth of the records of the managers, by- 
William Sprott, Clerk. 



M By special grant of the Managers to Rubmt 
Burns, who erected this stone, this burial-plti-a 
is to remain for ever sacred to the uieiuor. y f 
Robert Ftrsusso ■>. " 



EXTRACT OF A LETTER FROM 

SUi March, 1787. 
1 am trnly happy to know you have found a 

friend in ; his patronise of you does 

him great honour. He is truly a good man ; 
by far the be>t I ever knew, oi. perhaps, ever 
shall know, in this world. But I must not 
speak all I think of him, le=t I should be 

So you have obtained liberty from the ma- 
rates to erect a stone over F^rgusson's 
e ? I do not doubt it; such things have 
been, as Shak=pea-e says, " in thuoldeu-time :'' 



TO ■ 

. XV TEAR SIR, 

Yott may think, and too justly, that I am a 
selfish ungrateful fellow, having received so 
many repeated instances of kindness from you, 
and vet never putting pen to paper to say — 
thank you ; but if you knew what a devil of a 
life my conscience "has led me on that account, 
your good hear" would think yourself loo much 
avenged. By the bye, there is nothing in the 
whole frame of man which seems to me so 
unaccountable as that thing called conscience. 
Had the troublesome yelping cur powers effi- 
cient to prevent a mischief he might be of 
use: but at the beginning of the business, his 
feeble efforts are to the workings of pa-sion as 
the infant frosts of an autumnal morning to the 
Hnclouded fervour of the rising sun : and uo 
sooner are the tumultuous doings of the wicked 
deed over, than, amidst the bitter native con- 
sequences of fo:ly, in the very vortex of our 
horrors, up stairs conscience, and harrows us 

with the feelings of the d . 

I have inclosed you, by way of expiation, 
some ver=e and prose, that, if they merit a 
place in jour truly entertaining miscellany, 
jou are welcome to. The prose extract is 
literally as Mr Sprott sent it me. 

The Inscription on the Slone is as follows ; 

HERE LIES ROBERT FERGUSSON, 

I-OET, 



No sculptured marble here, nor pompons lay, 
" No storied urn nor animated bust ;" 

This simple stone directs pale Scotia's way 
To pojr her sorrows o'er her poet's dust. 

Oh the other ride of the Stone is at follows ; 



Tl is, I believe, upon poor Butler's tomb 
that this is written. But how many brothers 
of Parnassus, as well o.s poor Hutler and poor 
Fergusson, have a~ked for bread, and been 

The magistrates gave you liberty, did they? 
O generous magistrates ! "■*•*•• i celebrated 
over the three kingdoms for his public spirit, 
gives a poor poet liberty to raise a tomb to a 
poor port's memory I — most generous • • • • I 
once upon a time, gave that same poet the 
mighty sum of eighteen pence for a copy of 
his works. But" then it must be considered 
that the poet was at this time absolutely starv- 
ing, and besought his aid with all the earnest- 
ness of hunger; and, over and above, he re- 
ceived a worth, at least one-lhird of 

ihe value, in exchange, but which, I believe, 
the poet afterwards very ungratefully expunged. 

Next week I Lope to have the p'easuie cf 
seeing \ou : n Edinburgh ; and as my stay wiil 
be for eight or ten days, 1 wish you or . 

would take a snog", weli-aired bedroom for 
me, where I ma? have the pleasure of seeing 
you over a morning cup of tea. But by all 
accounts, it will be a matter of some difficulty 
to s-eeyou at ali, unless your company is be- 
spoke a week beforehand. There is a great 
rumour here concerning your great intimacy 

with the Duchess of , and other ladies 

of distinction. I am really told that " cards 
to invite fly by thousands each night ;" and, if 
you had one, 1 suppoie there would also be 
•« bribes to sour old secretary." It seems you 
are resolved to make hay while the sun shines, 
and avoid, if possible, the fate of poor Fer- 
gusson Quce'-enca pe- 

cuuia primum est, virtus post nummos, is a good 
maxim to thrive by ! you seemed to despise it 
while in this country ; but probably some phi- 
losopher in Edinburgh has taught you better 
sense. 

Pray, are you yet engraving as well as print- 
ing ?— Are you yet seized 

•« With itch of picture in the front, 
With bays of wicked rhyme upon't : * 



BUBK6 — LETTERS. 



» 



But I must give up this trifling, and attend 
to matters that more concern mvseif: so, ai 
the Aberdeen -wit says, adieu dryly, lie sal 
drink phun tee meet.* 



WA XXV. 
TO MRS DUNLOP. 

MADAM, Edinburgh, March 22, 1787. 

1 read your letter with watery eyes. A little, 
■very little while ago, I had scarce a friend tut 
the ftubborn pride of my oun befom ; now 1 am 
distinguished patronized, befriended by you. 
Your friendly advices, I will not give them the 
cold name of cr.ticisms, ! receive with reve- 
rence. I have made some small alterations in 
what I before had printed. I have the advice 
of some very judicious friends among the lite- 
rati here, but with them I sometimes find it 
necessary to claim the privilege of thinking for 
myself. The noble Earl of Glencairn, to 
whom I owe more than to any man, does me 
the honour of giving me his strictures : his 
hints with respect to impropriety or indelicacy, 
] follow implicitly. 

You kindly interest yourself in my future 
views and prospects j there i can give you no 
light ; it is all 

•• Dark as was chaos, ere the infant sun 
Was roll'd together, or had triid his beams 
Athwart the gloom profound. ' ' 

The appellation of a Scottish bard is by far 
r.v highest pride; to continue to deserve " 
ny most exalted ambition. Scottish scene: 
Scottish story are the themes 1 could wis 
sing. I have no dearer aim than to base 

power, unplagued with the routine of 1 usi- 

s, for which heaven knows I am unfit 

enough, to make leisurely pilgrimages through 

Caledonia ; to sit on the fields of her battles ; 

ander on the romantic banks of her rivers ; 

i ruins, once the honoured abodes of her 
beree* 

it these are all Utopian thoughts : I have 
dallied long enough with life: 'tVs time to be 

irnest. 1 have a fond, an agect mother to 
c?re for ; and some other bosom ties perhaps 
equally tender. Where the individual oi.ly 
suffers by the consequences of his own thought- 
lessness, indolence, or folly, he may be excus- 
able : nay, shining abilities, and some of the 
nobler virtues, may haii'-sauctify a heedless 



* The above extract is from a letter cf one of 
the ablest of our poet's correspondents, which 
mtains some interesting anecdotes of Fergus- 
>ii, that we should have been happy to have 
inserted, if they could have been authenticated. 
The writer is mistaken in supposing the inagis- 
:ratesof Edinburgh had anysharein the transac- 
especting the monument erected for Fer- 
i by our ard : this, it is evident, passed 
etwecn Burns and the Kirk Session of the Ca- 
.oiigate. Neither at Edinburgh, nor anywhere 
'se, do magistrates usually trouble thr"- -' 



character: but where God and naiure have 
intrusted the welfare cf others to bis care ; 
where the trust is sacred, and the ties are dear, 
that man must be far gone in selfishness, or 
strangely lost to reflection, whom these con- 
nexions will not rouse to exertion. 

I guess that I shall clear between two and 
Three hundred pounds by my authorship : with 
that sum I intend, >so tar as 1 may be said to 
have any intention, to return to my old ae- 
(jBaintance, the plough, and, if 1 can meet with 
a lease by Which I can live, to commence lar- 
nier. I do not intend to give up poetry : being 
bred to labour secures me independence ; and 
the muses are my chief, sometimes have been 
my only, enjoyment. If my practice second 
ir.v resolution, 1 shall have principally at heart 
the serious business of life: bnt while follow- 
ing my plough, or building up my shocks, I 
shall cast a "leisure glance to that dear, that 
only feature of my character, which gave me 
the notice of my country and the patronage of 
a Wallace. 

Thus, honoured madam, I have grvtni \ou 
the bard, his situation and his views., native aa 
they are in his own bosom. 



No. XXVI. 

TO THE SAME. 

MADAM, Edinburgh, 15lh April, 1787. 
There is an affectation of gratitude which I 
dislike. The periods of Johnson and the 
pauses of Sterne may hide a selfish heart. For 
my part, madam, I trust 1 have too much pride 
for servility, and too little prudence for selfish- 
ness. 1 have this moment broke open jour 
letter, but 

" Rude am I in speech, 
And therefore little can I erace my cause 
In speaking for myself — " 

so I shall not trouble ycu with any fine speeches 
and hunted figures. " I shall jus't lay my hand 
on my heart, and say, I hope I shall" ever have 
the truest, the warmest, seu.se of your good- 

I come abroad in prii.tlfcr certain on 
Wednesday. Your orders I shall punctually 
attend to; only, by the way, I must tell you 
that I was paid before for Dr Moore's and 
Miss W. 's copies, through the medium of 
Commissioner Cochrane in this place ; but that 
we can settle when I have the honour of wait- 

l)r Bnrirhf was just gone to Londcn the 
morning before I recehed ycur ktter to him. 



No. XXYII. 

TO DR MOORE. 

Edinburgh, 23d April, 1787. 
received the books, and sent the one you 
;iitioned to Mrs Duulop. I am ill-skilled 



ih>hed, or how Lit grave is a 



, iur- 



( Adam Smith. 



94 

in beating die coveits of imagination for roeta- 

Shors of- gratitude. I thuuk you, sir, ior the 
onour ycu have done me ; and to iuy latest 
hour will waruiiy re.nember it. To Le highly 
pleased with your took, as what I have in 
common with the world ; hut to regard these 
vo.uuies as a mark af die author s frieiiiuy 
esteem, is a still more supreme gratification. 

I leave Edinburgh in the course oi leu days 
or a fortnight ; and after a few pilgr. mages 
over some of the osssic ground of L„c^.,.i, 
Ci-utu-x-Iuiowcs, fiamla tfi'a 
1 snaal return to my rural shades, in all likeii. 
hood never more to quit them. 1 have formed 

ajraid they are all of loo tender a construction 
to U;ar curr.age a hundred and ti'ty tunes. To 
the rich, the great, me fash.ouaLie, the polite, 
I have no equivalent to oner ; aud I am afraid 
my meteor aggeargjuy w... by no means en- 
tire me (o a seeded coxrespende 
of you, v.ho are ih= p :tui-:..i i - ;--.= --" g: : 



a i.lera 



My uiosi . . = - 
If once tins tangent slight of iu.uc « = 
&aj I were returned to my wonted i 
motion in my old circle, 1 may prco 



Xo. XXYIIL 



?•;:,= w. 



exrBACX of 

to a>t&s c 



UXLCP. 



Edinburgh, SOi'A April, 17S7. 
_ Your criticisms, Madam, 1 understand 

verv wel', ar.dcoulu have wished to have pleas- 
ed you better) You are right in y. ur guess 

that 1 am not very aint..aL.e to counsel. To-ets, 

; : r .-. '..-t, have so Haltered 






i of 



I set as Utile ty . lords, e'.ergy, cr;- 

Itea, See- as all these .-.-; .. ws.gea rj ih: bj 

iiiy bar-ship. 1 know what I may e^^ecl 
from the world by ana ty — ij.teral abuse, aud 
perhaps ol .... 

1 am happy, Madam, inat some of my own 
favourite pieces are a.stiiigu.shed by your par- 
ticular approbation. Tor my Dream, wh.eh 
his unfortunately incurred your 
sure, 1 hope in lour weeks, or less, to have the 
honour of appearing at Dualop in its deieuce, 
in person. 



Lau-n-2dar'<tl, Edinburgh, 3d May, 17S7, 

REVEREND AND MUCH RESPECTED SIR, 
I leave Edinburgh lo-uioxrow morning, but 
could not go wiiuool troubling you with hau a 
hoe, am >j to thank ; cu :or the kiuduess, 



patronage, and friendship you have shown ate, 
liften felt the embarrassment of my singular 
situation ; drawn forth from the veriest shades 
of life to the glare of remark ; ami honoured 
ty ti.e not.ee of those ii.ustrious names of my 
country, whose works, while ibey are applaud- 
ed to the end of time, -will ever instruct and 
mend the Heart. However ;he meteor-like 
novelty of my appearance in the world might 
attract notice, and honour me with the ac- 
quaintance ot' the permanent lights of genius 
ana literature, lho=e who are truly benefactors 
of the immortal nature of man ; 1 knew very 
well, that my utmost merit was far unequal to 
the task of preserv.ug lb*.! character when once 
the novelty was over. I have mane up uiy 
mind, that abuse, or almost even neglect, will 
not surprise me in my quarters. 

1 have sent ycu a proof impression of Eeu- 
go's work for me, none on Indian paper, as a 
trilling, hut sincere testimony wuh what beart- 
waiui gratitude- J am, gjc. 



X\. XXX. 

FROM EA fJLAIIi. 

Arzjle-Square, Edinburgh, 4.A Hay, 17S7. 

I was favoured this forenoon with your very 
obliging letter, together with au inuression of 
your portrait, for which I return you my best 
thai.ks. The success ycu have met with I do 
not think «sf beyoud yuar merits; and if I 
have had any small hand in contributing to it, 
it gives me great pleasure. I know noVay in 
; ersons, who are advanced in 

ars, ... more service to the world, than 
g the efforts of rising genius, or 
bringing forth unknown merit from obscurity. 
I was the Urst person who brought out to the 
no;ice of the worid, the poems or Ossian 
by the .F.'Cg;:.. . .-: I .. ry which i 

published, and afterwards, by mj V 
foot the undertaking for eoUectii g 
iug the IVorfe cj Uisiai. : audi ha 
considered this as a meritorious action of my 
life. 

Your situation, as you say, was indeed very 
singular ; aud. in being trought out ail at 
once from the shaaes of deepest privacy, to so 
great a share >. 

you had to s:a:iu a severe trial. I am happy 
that you have stood it so we.i ; and as far as £ 
have known or heard, though in the m:dst of 
i:;a::y temptations, without reproach to your 
character and beoaviour. 

private walk of life; and i tru^t, will conduct 
yourself there with industry, prudence, aud 
honour. l'oi have laid the foundation for 
just public esteem. In the midst of those em. 
ploymeuts, which your situation will render 
proper, you Will not, 1 hope, neglect to pro- 
mole that esteem, by cultivating your genius, 
and attending to sucu productions of it as may 
raise your character still higher. At the same 
time, oe not iu loo great a haste to come for • 
ward. Take time and leisure to improve and 
mature vour talents ; for on any second pro- 
duction you give the world, your fate as a 
j iu>ich depend. 'iiiere is, no 



BURNS. — LETTERS. 



doabt, a gloss of novelty which time wears off. 
As you very properly hint yourself, you are 
noi 10 be surprisei if, in )o-ir rural retreat, you 
do nut tind yourself surrounded with that glare 
of notice and applause which here shone upon 
you. No man can be a good poet without 
being somewhat of a pbilos pher. He must 
lay his account, that any one who exposes 
himself to public observation, will occasionally 
meet with the attacks of illiberal censure, 
■which it is always ben to overlook and despise. 
He will be inclined sometimes to com t retreat, 
r from public 



■t aire.. 



= iiin. 



; adv. 






If ne- 



i forth 
and energy. He will not think hi 
gieeted if 'lie be not always praised. I h; 
taken the liberty, you see. of an old man, 
give advice and make reflections which yi 
own good sense will, I dare say, render un 



• As you mention your being just about to 
leave town, you are going, I should suppose, 
to Dauifr'^shre to iook at soma of Mr Miller's 
farms. I heartily \vi=h the offers to be made 
you there may answer; as I am persuaded 
you will not easily iiud a more generous and 
beiier hearted proprietor to live under than Mr 
Miller. When you return, if you come this 
way, I will be happy to see you. and to know 
concerning your future plans of life. You 
will bud me, by the 22.1 o; this month, not in 
my hou«e in Arjvle Square, but at a country* 

Edinburgh, near the Musselburgh road. W.sh- 
i:i? you ail success and piospe.ity, I am, with 

Dear Sir, 

Yours sincerely, 

HUGH BLAIR. 



mt of his Odes 
than all bis other writings. But nothing now 
added is equal to your Vision and Colter's 
Saturday Nigh/. In these are united fine ima- 
gery, natural and pathetic description, with 
sublimity of language and tboiiihr. It is evi- 
dent that 3 on already possess a ereat variety of 
expression and command of the Eo S lish Ian- 
guage ; you ought, therefore, to deal more 
sparingly for the future, in the provine'al dia- 
lect : — why should you, by using that, limit the 
number of your admirers to those who under- 
stand !he Scottish, when you can extend it to 
all persons of taste who understand the English 
language ? In my opiuion, you should plan 
some larger work than any you have as yet at. 
tempted. I mean, reflect upon some proper 
snijee', and arrange the plan in your mind, 

jou have "studied most of the' b-st English 



FROM DR MOORE. 



Clifford Street, May 23, 17S7- 



t>zar s 



1 had (he pleasure of your letter by Mr Creech, 
and soon after he sent me the new edition of 
your poems. You seem to think it incumbent 
on you to send to each subscriber a number of 
copies proportionate to his subscripion money ; 
hut you may depend upon it, few subscribers 
expect more than one copy, whatever thev sub- 
scribed. I must inform you, however, that I 
took twelve copies for those subscribers for 
whose money you were so accurate as to send 
me a receipt ; and Lord Eglinton told me he 
had sent fur six copies for himself, as he wished 
to give five of them in presents. 

Some of ihe poems you have added in this 
last ediiion are beautiful, par»i uiarly the Win- 
ter Night, the Address to Edinburgh, Green 
grow the Rashes, and the two songs immedi- 
ately following; the latter of which was ex- 
quisite. By the way, I imagine you have a 
peculiar talent for such composiiiwns, which 



;ek and Roi 



i lit 



j cf h 



abridgment, and soon become master of the 
most brilliant facts, which must hijrhly delight 
a poetical mind. You should alto, and very 
soon may, become master of the heathen my tho- 
logy, to which there are everlasting allusions 
in all the poets, and which in itself is char- 
mingly fanciful. What will require to be 
studied with more attention, is moJern history ; 
that is, the history of France and Great 
Britain, from the beginning of Henry the 
Seventh's reign. I know very well you have 
a mind capable of attaining knowledge by a 
shorter process than is commonly used, and I 
am certain you are capable of making a better 
use of it, when attained, than is generally don9. 

I beg you will not give yourself the trouble 
of writing to me when it is inco.wenient, and 
make do apology, when you do write, for hav- 
ing postponed it ; be assured of this, however, 
that I shall always be happy lo hear from yon. 
I think my friend Mr — — . told me that y.-ni 
had some poems in manuscript by you of a 
satirical and humorous nature (in 'which, by 
the way, I think you very strong,) which your 
prudent friends prevailed on you to omit ; par- 
ticularly one called Somebody's Confession ; 
if you will intrust me with the si-bt of any of 
these, I will pawn my word to give no copies, 
and will be obliged to you for a perusal of ihsm. 

I understand ycu intend to t : ke a farm, and 
make the U9eful and respectable business of 
husbandry your chief occupation ; this, I hop*, 
will not prevent your making occasional ad- 
dresses to the nine ladies who have shown vou 
such favour, one of whom visited you in "the 
auld clay biggin. Virgil, before you, proved io 
the world that there is nothing in the business 
of husbandry inimical to poetry j and I sincerely 
hope that you ma^ afford an example of a good 
poet being a successful farmer. I fear it will 
not be in tnv power to visit Scotland this sea- 
son ; when I do, I'll endeavour to find you 
out, for I heartily wish to see and converge wiio 
you. If ever your occasions call you to this 
place, I make uo doubt of your paying me a 

* His subsequent compositions will hear tes- 
timony to the accuracy of Or Moore V judg- 



DIAMOND CAB1NE1 LIBRARY. 



vialt, and you may depend ou a verj cordial 
welcome from this family. 

I am, dear* Sit, 
"Sour friend andobediert servant, 
J. MOORE. 



No. XXXIL 

FROM MR JOHN HUTCHINSON. 

SiU, Jamaica, St Ann's, IMh June, 1787. 
I received yours, dated Edinburgh, 2d Janu- 
ary 17S7, wherein you acquaint me you were 
engaged with Mr Doi.glas of Port Antonio, for 
three years, at thirty pounds sterling a-year; 
and am happy some" unexpected accidents in- 
tervened that prevented your sailing with the 
vessel, as I have great reason to think Mr 
Douglas's employ would by no means have 
answeiedyoui expectations, i received a copy 
of your publications, fcr which I return you 
my thanks, and it is my own opinion," as 
well as that of such of my friends as have 
seen them, they are most excellent in their 
kind; although some couid have wished they 
had been in the En-ash style, as they allege the 
ScoU -'- dialect is now becoming obsolete, and 
thereby die elegance and beauties of your 
poems are in a great measure lest to far the 
greater part of the community. Nevertheless 
there is no doubt you had sufficient reasons for 
your conduct —perhaps the wishes of some of 
the Scottish nobility and gentry, your patrons, 
who will always relish their own old ceuntry 
style ; and y our own-inclinations for the 






hopes ycur genius for poetry 

both for protit and honour 
country. i can by no means 
to think of coming to the VV« 



Inverness, 5th September, 1787. 
MY DEAR SIR, 
I have just time to write the foregoing,* an 



to tell you that it was (at least most part of it), 
the effusion of an half hour I spent at Bruur. 
1 do not mean it was extempore, for I have en- 
deavoured to brush it up as well as Mr 

N 's chat, and the jogging of the chaise, 

would allow. It eases my heart a good deal, 
as rhyme is the coin with which a poet pays 
his oebts of honour or gratitude. What 1 owe 
to the noLle family or Athole, of the hrst kind, 
I shall ever proudly Loast ; what I owe of tho 
help me God in my hour of need, L 



shall n 



r k;v( 



'lhe little "angel bam! ! "—I declare I 
prayed for them very sincerely to-day at the 
Fali of Fyars. I shall never forget the line 
family-piece I saw at Elair ; the amiable, the 
truly noble Duchess, with her smiling little 
seraph in her lap, nt the bead of the table; 
the lovely " olive plants, " as the Hebrew bard. 
finely says, round the happy mother; the Leau- 

tiiulMrs G , the io.ely sweet Mis* C. 

&-'. 1 wish I had the powers of Cuido to tlo 
them justice ! Mj Lord Guke's kind hospital- 
' ndecd MrG.ofF 's 



fritndsbip- 



-S!r W. M_ 



nrks, 
ing in the English 



there is no encouragement f< 

I 1 C Jama°ica d . r fam'glaTt'o i 
e well, and shall always be happy 



No. XXXIV. 
TO MR GILBERT BURNS. 

Edinburgh, \7lh Sept. 1787. 

MY DEAR BROTHER, 

arrived here safe yesterday evening, after a 
our of twenty-two days, and travelling neat 
ix hundred miles, windii gs included. My 
arthest stretch was ; bout ten miles beyond In- 
erness. I went through the heart of the 
3ijrhlands, by Crieff, Icy mouth, the famous 
ea^t of Lord Breadalbane, c.own the Tay, 
.inong cascades and druidical circles of stones 
o Dunkeld, a seat cf the I!uke of Athole ; 
hence cross Tay, and up one of his tributary 
(reams to Blair of Athole, another of tha 
lake's seats, where I had the honour of spend- 
ng nearly two days with his Grace and fam- 
ly ; thence many miles through a wild conn- 
r'v, among cliffs gray wi.li e.erual snows, aiQ. 
fcomy savage glens," I'll 1 crossed Spey and 
x-nt clown the stream through t tialhspey, so 
siiions in Scottish music, Badenoch, &c. tiU 

reached Grant Castle, where 1 spent half a 
ay with Sir James Gr;,r.t and family , 
i;d then crossed the country for Fort George, 
Ut mailed by the way at Cawdor, the ancient 
rat ot Macbeth ; there 1 saw the identical bed 
n which, tradition says, king Duncan was 
nurdued: lastly, from Fort George to htver- 

I returned by the co:st, througa Nairn, 
Torres, and so on, to Aberdeen ; thence to 
Stouehive, where James Burnes, from Mon- 
e, met me by appointment. I spent two 
s among our relations, and found ouraunts, 
n and Isabel, still alive, and hale old wo- 
i. John Caird, though born the same year 
...h oi.r father, walks as vigorously as I can : 
they have had sevtxal letters from hi* sub 



EURX5 LETTERS. 



■ -. New York. ~ "William Brand is likewise a 

• out old fellow: but further particulars I de- 
y till I see you, which will be in two or three 

' eeks. The rest of my stages are not worth 
>>hearsing; warm as I was from Ossian's 
:3tmtry, where I had seen his very grave, 
•tat cared I for fishing towns or fertile carses ? 
I slept at the famous Brodie of Brodie's one 
right, and dined at Gordon Castle next day 
.^i;h the Duke, Duchess, and family. I am 

• linking to cause my old mare to meet me, by 
means of JobnRonald.atGlasgow; but you shall 
Lear farther from me before I leave Edinburgh. 

7y dutv, and many compliments from the 
■:orth, to my mother, and my brotherly compli- 
ments to the rest. I have been trying for a 
' :rth for William, but am not likely io be suc- 
essful. — Farewell. 



No. XXXV. 

FROM MR R 

i-lK, Ochlertyre, 22J October, 1787. 

Twas only yesterday I got Colonel Edmon- 
Etoune's answer, that neither the words of 
Lhicn ihe burn, Davie, nor Dainty Davie, (I 
forgot which you mentioned), were written by 
Colonel G. Crawford. Nest time I meet 
him, i will inquire about his cousin's poetical 
talents. 

Inclosed are the inscriptions yon requested, 
end a letter to Mr Young, whose company and 
musical talents will, I am persuaded, be a feast 
to you. * Nobody can give you better hints, 
as to your present plan, than he. Receive 



97 

also Oraeron Cameron, which seemed to male 
such a deep impression on your imagination, 
that I ara not without Lopes it will beget some- 
thing to delight the public in due time: and, 
no doubt the circumstances of this little tale 
might be varied or extended, so as to make 
part of a pastoral comedy. Age or wounds 
might have kept Omeron at home, whilst his 
countrymen were in the field. His station 
may be somewhat varied, without losing his 
simplicity and kindness .... A group 
of characters male and female, connected with 
the plot, might be formed from his family, or 
some neighbouring one cf rank. It is not in- 
dispensable that the guest should be a man of 
high station ; nor is the political quarrel in 
which he is engaged, of much importance, un- 
less to call forth the exercise of senerosity and 
faithfulness, grafted on patriarchal hospitality. 
To introduce state affairs, would raise the 
style above comedy; though a small spice of 
them would season the converse of swains. 
Upon this head I cannot say more than to re- 
commend the study of the character of Eueueus 



"WRITTEN IN 1768. 

FOR THE SANCTUM t AT OCHTER- 
TYRE. 

Salubritatis voluptatiscue causa, 

Hoc Salictum, 

Paludem olim intidam, 

Mihi meisque desieco et exorno. 

Hie, procul negotiis slrepauque, 

Innocuis deliciis 
Silvulas inter nascentes reptandi, 
Apiumque labores suspiciendi, 

Hie, si faxit Dens opt. max. 

Prope hunc fontem pe'llucidum, 

Cum quodam juventutis amico superstite, 

Conuntus modicis, meoque latus '. 

Sin aliter- 

.aSvume paululutn snpersit, 



ENGLISHED. 

To improve both air aud soil, 

I drain and decorate this plantation of willows, 

"Which was lately an unprofitable morass. 

Here far frcm noise and s:rife, 

I luve to wander, 

Now fondly marking the progress of my trees, 

Now studying the bee, its arts and manners. 

Here, if it please Almighty God, 

May I often rest in the evening of life. 

Near that transparent fountain, 

"With some surviving frie:id of my youth ; 

Contented with a competency, 

And happy with my lot. 

, If vain these bumble wishes, 

And life draws near a close, 

Ye trees and friends, J 

And whatever else is dear, 
Farewell, and long may ye flourish. 

ABOVE THE DOOR OF THE HOUSE 

■WRITTEN IN 1775. 

Mihi meisque ntinam contingat, 

Prope Taichi margiuem," 

Avito in agello, 

Bene vivere fausteque mori ! 

ENGLISHED. 

On the banks of the Teith, 

In the small but sweet inheritance 

Of my fathers, 

May T and mine live in peace, 

Aud die in joyful hope I 

These inscriptions, and the translations, are 
in t e haud writing of Mr R . 

This gentleman, if still alive, will, it is 
hoped, excuse the liberty taken by the unknown 
editor, in enriching the correspondence cf 
Burns with his excellent letter, and with in- 
scriptions so classical and so interesting. 



DIAMOND CABLYET LIBRARY. 



iD the Odyssey, which, ia Mr Pope's transla- 
tion, is an exquisite and invaluable drawing 
from nature, that would suit some of our coun- 
try elders of the present day. 

There must be love in the plot, and a happy 
discovery ; and peace and pardon may be tfce 
reward of hospitality, and honest attachment 
to misguided principles. When you have cnce 
thou-rht of a plot, and brousht "the storv into 
form; Dr Eiacklock, or Mr" H. Mackenzie, 
may be useful in dividing it into acts and 
scenes ; for in these matters one must pay some 
attention to certain rules of the drama. These 
yoa could afterwards till up at your leisure. 
But, whilst I presume to give a few well- 
meant hints, let me advise you to study the 
spirit of my namesake's dialogue,* which is 
natural without being low, and, under the 
trammels of verse, is such as country people in 
their situations, speak every day. You have 
on'y to bring down your own strain a very 
litiie. A great plan, such as this, would con- 
centre ail your id-eas, which facilitates the 
execution, and makes it a part of one's 
pleasure. 

I approve of your plan of retiring from din 
and dissipation to a farm of very moderate size, 
sufficient to find exercise for mind and body, 
but not so great as to abssrb better things. And 
if some intellectual pursuit be well chosen and 
steadily pursued, it will be more lucrative 
than most farms, in this age of rapid improve- 

Upon this subject, as your well-wisher and 
admirer, permit me to go a step further. Let 
those bright talents which the Almighty has 
bestowed on yoa, be henceforth employed to 
the noble purpose of supporting the cause of 
truth and virtue. Au imagination so varied 
and forcible as yours, may do this in many dif- 
ferent modes ; nor is it necessary to be always 
serious, which you hare been to good purpose ; 
good morals may be recommended in a comedy, 
or even in a song. Great allowances are due 
to the heat and inexperience of youth ; — and 
few poets can boast, like Thomson, of never 
having written a line, which, dying, they 
■would wish to blot. Ia particular, I wish you 
to keep clear of the thorny walks of satire, 
which makes a man an hundred enemies for one 
friend, and is doubly dangerous when one is 
supposed to extend the slips and weaknesses of 
individuals to their sect or party. About modes 
of faith, serious and excellent men have always 
differed ; and there are certain curious ques- 
tions, which may afford scope to men of meta- 
physical heads, but seldom mead the heart or 
temper. Whilst these poinrs are beyond human 
ken, it is sufficient that all our seets concur in 
their views of morals. You will forgive me for 
these hints. 

Well ! what think you of good Lady C. ? It 
is a pity she is so deaf, and speaks so indis- 
tinctly. Her house is a specimen of the man- 
sions of our gentry of the last age, when hospi- 
tality and elevation of mind were conspicuous 
amidst plain fare and plain furniture. I shall 
be glad to hear from you at times, if it were no 
more than to show that you take the effusions 
of an obscure man like" me in good part. I 



# Allan Ratneay, in the Gemle Shepherd. 



b=g my best Tespects to Dr and Mrs Black- 
lock, - 

And am, Sir, 

Your most obedient humble servant, 
J. RAMSAY. 



f TALE OF OMERON CAMERON. 

In one of the wars betwixt the Crown of 
Scotland and the Lords of the Isles, Alexander 
Stewart, Earl of Mar (a distinguished charac- 
ter in the iteenth century), and Donald Stew, 
art, Earl of Caithness, "had the command of 
the royal army. They marched into Lochaber, 
with a view of attacking a body of McDonalds, 
commanded by Donald Halloch, and posted upon 
an arm of the sea which intersects that country. 
Having timely intelligence of their approach, 
the insurgents got off precipitately to the oppo- 
site shore in tr.eir curaghs, or boats covered 
with skins. The king's troops encamped in 
fall security; but the M'Dor.alds, returning 
about midnight, surprised them, killed the Earl 
of Caithness, and destroyed or dispersed the 

Tne Earl of Mar escaped in tbe dark, with- 
out any attendants, and made for the more 
hilly part of the country. In the course of his 
flight he came to the" house of a poor man, 
whose name was Oineron Cameron. The 
landlord welcomed his guest with the utmost 
kindness : but, as there was no meat in the 
house, he to'.d his wife he would directly kill 
Mod Oiihar,X to feed the stranger. "Kill our 
only cow ! ' : said she, "our own and our little 
children's principal support!" More atten- 
however.'o the present call for hospitality, 



) thr 



• the 



of his family, he killed the 
cow. The best and tenderest parts were im- 
mediately roasted before the fire, and plenty of 
innirich', or Highland soup, prepared to con- 
clude their meal The whole family and their 

guest ate heartily, and the evening was spent 
as usual, in telling tales and singing songs be- 
side a cheerful fire. Bed time came; Omeion 
brushed the hearth, spread the cow hide upon 
it, and desired the stranger to lie down. The 
Earl wrapped hia plaid about him, and slept 
sound on the hide, whilst the family betook 
themselves to rest in a coiner of the same room. 

Next morning they had a plentiful breakfast, 
and at bis departure his guest asked Cameron, 
if he knew whom he had entertained? *■ You 
may probably," answered he, " be one of the 
king's officers; but whoever you are, yoa 
came here in distress, and here it was my duty 
to protect you. To what my cottage afforded, 
you are most welcome.' 1 — " Your guest, 
then," replied the other, "is the Earl of 
Mar : and if hereafter you fall into any misfor- 
tune, fail not to come to the castle of Kildrum- 
mie."_"My blessing be with you! noble 
stranger," said Omeron ; "if I am ever in 

The royal army was soon after re-assembled ; 
and the insurgents, finding themselves unable 
to make head'agaiust it, dispersed. TheM'- 
Donalds, however, got notice that Omeron had 

% Mool OJhar, i. e. the brown humble cow. 






BURNS LETTERS. 



No. XXXYI. 
FROM MR W , 

4tlwle House, 13/ft September, J 767. 

Tour letter of the 5th reached me only on the 
11th; what awkward route it had taken 1 
know not : but it deprived me of the pleasure 
of writing to yon in the manner you proposed, 
as you must have left Dundee before a letter 
could possibly have got there. 1 hope your 
n being forced f ' 



Th 



iappoin 

great as appeared Irom your expre- 
' ' the best consolation for the great! 

I still think with vexation on that ill- 



timed indisposition which lost 
joy men t of a man (I speak v.itheut flattery), 
possessed of those very dispositions and talents 
1 most admire: .......... 

. . . You know how anxious the Duke 
was to have another day of you, and to let Mr 
Dundas have the pleasure of your conversation, 
as the best dainty with which be could enter- 
tain an honoured guest. You know likewise 
the eagerness the ladies showed to detain you ; 
but perhaps you do not know the scheme 
which they devised, with their usual fertility 
in resources. One of the servants was sent to 
your driver to bribe him to loosen or pull off a 
shoe from one of his horses, tut the ambush 
failed. Proh mirum I The driver was incor- 
ruptible. Your verses have given us much de- 
light, and I think will produce their proper 
effect.* They produced a pow erful one imme- 
diately ; for the morning alter 1 read them, we 
all set out in procession to the Bruar, where 
none of the ladies had been these seven or eight 
years, and r.gain enjoyed them there. The 
passages we most admired are the description 
of the dying trouls. Of the high fall, " twist- 
ing strength" is a happy picture of the upper 
part. The characters of the birds, " mild and 
mellow,'' is the thrush itself. The benevolent 
anxiety for their happiness and safety I highly 
approve. The two stanzas beginning «« Here 



been the Earl's host, and forced him to fly the 
country. He came with his wife and children 
to the gate of Rildrummie Castle, and required 
admittance with a confidence which hardly- 
corresponded with his hab;t and appearance. 
The porter told him, rudely, his Lordship was 
at dinner, and must not be disturbed. He be- 
came noisy and importunate : at last his name 
was announced. Upon hearing that it was 
Omeron Cameron, the Earl started from his 
seat, aniis said to have exclaimed in a sort of 
poetical stanza, " 1 was a night in his house, 
and fared most plentifully ; but naked of 
clothes was my bed. Omeron from Breugach 
is an excellent fellow!" He was introduced 
into the great hall, and received with the wel- 
come he deserved. Upon hearing how he had 
been treated, the earl ga\e him a four merk 
land near the castle ; and it is said there are 
still in the country a number of Camerons de- 
scended of this Highland Eumieus. 

* The humble Petition of Bruar- Water to 
toe Duke of Athole. 



Here I cannot deny myself the pleasure ol 
mentioning an incident which happened yes- 
terday at the Bruar. As we passed the door 
of a most miserable hovel, an old woman curt- 
sied to us with looks of such poverty, and such 
contentment, that each of us involuntarily gave 
her some money. She was astonished, and in 
the confusion of her gratitude, invited us in. 
Miss C. and I, that we might not hurt her de- 
licacy, entered— Lut, good God, uiiat wretch- 
edness ! It was a cow-hcuse — her own cottage 
had been burnt last winter. The poor old 
creature stood perfectly silent — looked at Miss 
C. then to the money, and burst i 



_ nned hei 
sensibility, took ou 
into the old woman 



Mth a 
'W'hat 



: char 



miplished girl of s 
teen in so angelic a situation ! Take jcur pen- 
cil and paint her in jcur most glowing tints. 
— Hold her up amidst the darkness of this 
scene of human woe, to the icy dames that 
flaunt through the gaieties of life, without ever 
feeling one generous, one great emotion. 

Two davs after you left us, I went to Tav- 
mouth. ft is a charming place, but still" I 
think art has been too busy. Let me be your 
Cicerone for two days at Dunkeld, and you 
will acknowledge that in the beauties of naked 
nature we are not surpassed. The loch, the 
Gothic arcade, and the fall of the hermitage, 
gave me most delight. But 1 think the last 
has not been taken proper advantage of. The 
hermitage is too much in the common-place 
style. Every body expects the couch, the 
.book-press, and the hairy gown. 'J he Duke's 
idea I think better. A rich and elegant apart- 
ment is an excellent contrast to a scene of Al- 
pine horrors. 

I must now beg your permission (unless you 
have some other design) to have your verses 
printed. They appear to me extremely correct, 
and some particular stanzas would give univer- 
sal pleasure. Let me know, howrever, if you 
incline to give them any farther touches. 

Were they in some of the public papers, we 
could more easily disseminate them among 
our friends, which many of us are anxious to 
do. 

When you pay your promised visit to the 
Braes of Ochtertjre, Mr and Mrs Graham of 
Balgowan beg to have the pleasure of conduct- 
ing you to the bower of Bessy Bell and Mary 
Gray, which is now in their possession. The 
Duchess would give any consideration for ano- 
ther sight of your letter to l)r Moore ; we must 
fall upon some method of procuring it for her. 
I shall inclose this to our mutual friend Dr 

B , who Jiay forward it. 1 shall b« 

extremely happy to hear from you at your first 
leisure. Inclose your letter in a cover ad- 
dressed to the Duke of Athole, Dunkeld. 
God bless you, 

J W . 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY 



FROM MR A- 



SIR, 



6lh October, 17S7. 



Having just arrived from abroad, 1 bad your 
poems put into my bands : tbe pleasure I re- 
ceived in reading them, has induoed me to 
solicit your liberty to publish them amongst a 
number of our countrymen in America (to 
which place I shall shortly return), and 
where they will be a treat of such excellence, 
that it would be an injury to your merit and 
their feeling to prevent their appearing in 
public % 

Receive the following hastily written lines 
from a well-wisher. 



Fair fa' your pen, bit dainty Rob, 

Your leisom way o writing, 
Whiles, g':owring o'er your warks, I sob, 

Whiles laugh, whiles downright greetinj 
Your sonsie tykes may charm a chiel, 

Their words are wond'rous bonny, 
But guid Scotch drink the truth does say, 

It is as guid as ony 

Wi ' you this day. 



Poor Mailie, troth, I'll nae but think, 

Ye did the poor thins wransr, 
To leave her tether 'd oil the brink 

Of stank sae wide and lang ; 
Her dying words upbraid ve sair, 

Cry fie on your neglect ; 
Guid faith gin ye had got play fair, 

This deed had stretch 'd your neck, 

That mournfu' day, 



But waes me, how dare fin' faut, 

Wi' sik a winsome bardie, 
Wha great an' sma's begun to daut, 

And"tak him by the gardie : 
It sets na onv lawland chie!, 

Like vou lo verse or rhyme, 
For few like you can flej tbe deil, 

And skclp auid wither 'd Time 
On ony day. 

It's fair to praise ilk canty callan, 

Be he of purest fame, 
If he but tries to raise, as Allan, 

Auld Scotia's bonny name ; 
To you, therefore, in humble rhyme, 

Better I canna gie. 
And though it's but a swatch of thine, 

Accept these lines frae me, 

LTpon this day. 

Frae Jock o' Groats to bonny Tweed, 

Frae that e 'en to the line, 
In ilka place where Scotchmen bleed, 

There shall your hardship shine ; 
Ilk honest chiel wha reads your tuick. 

Will there aye meet a brither, 
He lang may seek and lang will look, 

Ere be fin' sic anither 

On ony day. 



Feart that my cruicket verse should spairge 

Some wark of wordie mak, 
I'se nae mair o' this head enlarge 

But now my farewell tak ; 
Lang may vou live, lang mav vou write. 

And sing'l.ke English Weischell, 
This prater I do myself indite. 

From yours still," A M . 

This very day. 



No. XXXVIII, 
FROM MR J. RAMSAY, 

TO THE 

REV W. YOUNG, AT ERSKIXE. 

OchUrtyrc, 22d October, 17 87. 
DEAR SIR, 
Allow me to introduce Mr Burns, whop 
poems, I dare say, have given you mucl 
personal acquaintance, 






h the 

his works, in which there is a rich vein of 
intellectual ore. He has heard some of our 
Highland Itdiags or songs played, which 
delighted him so much that he has made 
words to one or two of them, which will ren- 
der these more popular. As he has thought of 
being in your quarter, I am persuaded you 
will not think it labour lost to indulge the poet 
of nature with a sample of those sweet artlesa 
melodies, which only want to be married (in 
Milton's phrase) to congenial words. I wish 
we could conjure up the ghost of Joseph M'D. 
to infuse into our bard a portion of his enthu- 
siasm for those neglected airs, which do not 
suit the fastidious musicians of the present 
hour. But if it be true that Corelli (whom I 
locked on as the Homer of music) is out of 
date, it is no proof of their taste ; — this, how- 
ever, is going out of my province. You can 
show Mr Burns the manner of singing these 
same luinigs ; and, if be can humour it in 
words, I do not despair of seeing one of them 
sung upon the stage, in the original style, 

1 am very sorrv we are likely to meet so sel- 
dom in this neighbourhood. It is one of the 
greatest drawbacks that attends obscurity, that 
one has bo few opportun ties of eultivatieg 
acquaintances at a distance. I hope, how- 
ever, some time or other, to have the pleasure 
of beat ng up your quarters at Er=kine, and 
of hauling you away to Paisley, &c, mean- 
while I beg' to be remembered to Messrs Boog 
and Mvlne. 

If Mr B. goes by -, give him a billet 

on our friend Mr Stuart, who, I presume, 
does net dread the frown of his diocesan, 

I am, Dear Sir, 

Your most obedient humble servant, 
J. RAMSAY. 



BURNS. —LETTERS. 



101 



MR RAMSAY TO DR BLACKLOCK. 

Ochtertyre, 27th October, 1787. 
DEAR SIR, 
1 received yours by Mr Burns, and give you 
many thanks for giving me an opportunity of 
conversing with a man of his calibre. He 
will, I doubt not, let you know what passed 
between us on the subject of my hints, to which 
I have made additions, in a letter sent him 
t 'other day to your care. 

Yet may tell Mr Burns, when you see h!ro, 
that Colonel Edmonstoune told me t'other day, 
that his cousin, Colonel George Crawford, was 
no poet, but a great singer of songs ; but that 
his eldest brother Robert (by a former mar- 
riage) had a great turn that way, having writ- 
ten the words of The Rush aboon Traquair, and 
Twcedside. That the Mary to whom it was 
addressed was Mary Stewart of the Castlemilk 
family, afterwards wife of Mr John Relches. 
The Colonel never saw Robert Crawford, 
though he was at his burial tii'ty-five years ago. 
He was a pretty young man, and had lived long 
in France. Lady Ankerville is his niece, and 
may know more of his poetical vein. An epi- 
taph-monger like me might moralize upon the 
vanity of life, and the vanity of those sweet 
effusions.— But 1 have hardly room to offer my 
best compliments to Mrs Blacklock ; and I am, 
Dear Doctor, 

Your most obedient humble servant, 
RAMSAY. 



Edinburgh. We frequently repeat some of 
ur verses in our Caledonian society ; and 
, u may believe, that I am not a little vain 
that I have had some share in cultivating such 
snius. I was not absolutely certain that 
were the author, till a few days ago, when 
ade a visit to Mrs Hill, Dr M'Comb's eldest 
daughter, who lives in town, and who told me 
lat she was informed of it by a letter from her 
ster in Edinburgh, with whom you had been 
i company when in that capital. 
Pray let me know if you have any intention 
f visiting this huge, overgrown metropolis ? 
t would afford matter for a large poem. Here 
ou would have an opportunity of indulging 
our vein in the study of mankind, perhaps to 
greater degree than in any city upon the face 
of the globe ; for the inhabitants of London, as 
know, are a collection of all nations, kin- 
dreds, and tongues, who make it, as it were, 
the centre of their commerce. 

Present my respectful compliments to Mrs 
Burns, to my dear friend Gilbert, and all the 
rest of her amiable children. May the Father 
of the universe bless you all with those princi- 
ples and dispositions that the best of parents 
took such uncommon pains to instil into your 
minds from your earliest infancy I May ycu 
live as he did ! if you do, you can never be 
unhappy. I feel myself grown serious all at 
once, and affected in a manner I cannot de- 
scribe. I shall only add, that it is one of the 
greatest pleasures 1 promise myself before I die, 
that of see ng the family of a man whose me- 
mory I revere more than that of any person '.hat 
ever I was acquainted with. 

I am, my dear Friend, 
Yours sincerel 

JOHN MURDOCH. 



FROM MR JOHN MURDOCH. 

London, 2 8 /A October, 1787. 

MY DEAR SIR, 
As my friend, Mr Brown, is going from this place 
to your neighbourhood, I embrace the oppor- 
tunity of telling you that I am yet alive, toler- 
ably well, and always in expectation of being 
better. By the much valued letters before me, 
I see that it was my duty to have given you this 
intelligence about three years and nine months 
ago; and have nothing to allege as an excuse, 
DUt that we poor, busy, bustling bodies in Lon- 
don, are so much taken up with the various 
pursuits in which we are here engaged, that we 
seldom think of any person, creature, place, or 
thing, that is absent. But this is not altogether 
the case with me ; for I often think of you, 
and Hornie, and Russet, and an unfalkomed 
depth, and lowan brunstane, all in the same 
minute, although you and they are (as I sup- 
pose) at a considerable distance. I flatter my- 
self, however, with the pleasing thought, that 
you and 1 shall meet some time or other either 
Hi Scotland or England. If ever you come 
hither, you will have the satisfaction of seeing 
your poems relished by the Caledonians in 
Loudon, full as much as they can be by those 



FROM MR 

Gordon Castle, 31st October, 1787. 

S'R, 
If you were not sensible of your fault as well 
as of your loss in leaving this place so suddenly, 
I should condemn you to starve upon cauld kail 
for ae toivmont at least ; and as for D!ck 
Latine,* your travelling companion, without 
banning him ttu' a* the curses contained in 
your letter, (which he'll ko value a bawbee,') I 
'louid give him nought but Stra'bogie castovks 

chew for *a.r ouks, or aye until he was ai 
sensible of his error as you seem to be of yours. 

Your song I showed without producing the 
author ; and it was judged by the Duchess to be 
the production of Dr Beattie. I sent a copy of 
it, by her Grace's desire, to a Mrs M'Pherson 
in Badenoch, who sings Alorag and all other 
Gaelic songs in great perfection. I have re- 
corded it likewise, by Lady Charlotte's desire, 
in a book belonging to her ladyship, where it is 
in company with a great many other poems 
and verses, some of the writers of which are 
no ltss eminent for their political than for their 



10* 

poetical abilities. When the Duchess" was in- 
formed that you were the author, she wished 
you had written the verses in Scotch. 

Any letter directed to me here will come to 
hand safely, and, if sent under the Duke's 
cover, it will likewise come free ; that is, as 
long as the Duke is in this country. 
I am, Sir, yours s'.ncerely. 



No. XLIL 
FROM THE REV. JOHN SKINNER. 

SIR, Linshart, November 11th, 1787. 

Your kind return without date, but of post- 
mark October 25ih, came to my hand only 
this day ; and, to testify my punctuality to my 
poetic engagement, I sit down immediately to 
answer it in kind. Your acknowledgment of 
my poor but just encomiums on your surpris- 
ing genius, and your opinion of my rhyming 
excursions, are both, I think, by far too high. 
The difference between our two tracts of edu- 
cation and the ways of life is entirely in your 
favour, and gives you the preference every man- 
ner of way. I know a classical education will 
not create a versifying taste, but it mightily im- 
proves and assists it ; and though, where both 
these meet, there may sometimes be ground 
for approbation, yet where taste appears single, 
as it were, and neither cramped nor supported 
by acquisition, I will always sustain the jus- 
tice of its prior claim to applause. A small 
portion of taste, this way, 1 have had almost 
from childhood, especially in the old Scottish 
dialect : and it is as old a thing as I remember, 
my fondness for Christ's idrk o' the Grene, 
•which I had by heart ere I was twelve years of 
age, and which, some years ago, I attempted to 
turn into Latin verse. While 1 was young, I 
dabbled a good deal in these things ; but, on 
getting the black gown, I gave it pretty much 
over, till my daughters grew up, who, being 
all good singers, plagued me for words to some 
of their favourite tunes, and so extorted these 
effusions, which have made a public appear- 
ance beyond my expectation, and contrary to 
my intentions, at the same time that I hope 
there is nothing to be found in them uncharac- 
teristic, or unbecoming the cloth, which I 
would always wish to see respected. 

As to the assistance you propose from me in 
the undertaking you are engaged in,* I am 
sorry I cannot give it so far as I could wish, 
and you, perhapg, expect. My daughters, 
who were my only intelligencers, are all foris 
familiate, and the old woman their mother has 
lost that taste. There are two from my own 
pen, which I might give you, if worth the 
while. One to the old Scotch tune of Dum- 
barto?i's Drums. 

The other perhaps you have met with, as 
your noble friend the Duchess has, 1 am told, 
heard of it. It was squeezed out of me by a 
brother parson in her neighbourhood, to ac- 
commodate a new Highland reel for the Mar- 
quis's birth day, to the stanza of 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



" Tune your fiddles, tune them sweetly, "&c. 

If this last answer your purpose, you may 
have it from a brother of mine, Mr James 
Skinner, writer in Edinburgh, who, I believe, 
can give the music too. 

There is another humorous thing, I have 
heard said to be done by the Catholic priest 
Geudes, and which hit my taste much : 

*' There was a wee wifeikie was coming frae 

the fair, 
Had got a little drapikie, which bred ner 

meikle care ; 
It took upo ' the wibe's heart, and she began 

And, quo' the wee wifeikie, I wish I biuria 
fou, 

"I wish, 4'C. #"C. " 

I have heard of another new composition, by 
a young ploughman of my acquaintance, that 
I am vastly pleased with, to the tune of Tke 
humours of Glen, which I fear wont do, as the 
music, I am told, is of Irish original. 1 have 
mentioned these, such as they are, to show my 
readiness to oblige you, and to contribute my 
mite, if I could, to the patriotic work you have 
in hand, and which 1 wish all success to. 
You have only to notify your mind, and what 
you want of the above shall be sent you. 

Meantime, while you are thus publicly, I 
may say, employed, do not sheath your own 
proper and piercing weapon. From what I 
have seen of yours already, I am inclined to 
hope for much good. One lesson of virtue and 
morality, delivered in your amusing style, and 
from such as you, will operate more than doz- 
ens would do from such as me, who shall be 
told it is our employment, and be never more 
minded : whereas, from a pen like yours, as 
being one cf the many, what comes will be ad- 
mired. Admiration will produce regard, and 
regard will leave sn impression, especially 
when example goes along. 

Now binna saying I'm ill bred. 
Else, by my troth, I'll not be glad ; 
For cadgers, ye have heard it said, 

And sic like fry, 
Maun aye be harland in their trade. 

And sae maun I. 

Wishing you from my poet- pen, all success, 
and in my other character, all happiness aud 
heavenly direction, 

I remain, with esteem, 

Your sincere friend, 

JOHN SKINNER. 



No. XLIH. 

FROM MRS f 

—k Ccstle, 30th November, 1787. 
, believe, 






(Mrs Ross of Kilravock, Nairnshire. 



BURNS LETTERS. 



10S 



punctual performance of your parting promise, 
that has made me so long in acknowledging it, 
but merely the difficulty I had in getting the 
Highland songs you wished to have, accurately- 
noted : they are at last inclosed : but how 
shall I convey along with them those graces 
they acquired from the melodious voice of one 
of the fair spirits of the hill of Kildrummie ! 
These I must leave to your imagination to 
supply. It has powers sufficient to transport 
you to her side, to recall her accents, and to 
make them still vibrate in the ears of memory. 
To her I am indebted for getting the inclosed 
notes. They are clothed with tl thoughts that 
breathe, and words that burn. " 1'hese, how- 
ever, being in an unknown tongue to you, you 
must again have recourse to that same fertile 
imagination of yours to interpret them, and 
suppose a lover's description of the beauties of 
an adored mistress — Why did I say unknown 'i 
The language of love is au universal one, that 
seems to have escaped the confusion of Babel, 
and to be understood by all nations. 

I rejoice to find that you were pleased with 
so many things, persons, and places in your 
northern tour, because it leads me to hope 
you may be induced to revisit them again. 
That the old castle of K. k, and its in- 
habitants, were amongst these, adds to my 






la 



your very flattering applicat 
Addison's; at any rate, all 
that " friendship will mainti 
has occupied" in both ( 
absence, and that, when 
as acquaintance of a sc* 
and on this footing, con 
in the future course of y 
commenced. Any comn 
gress of your muse will 



tain the ground she 
hearts, in spite of 
do meet, it will be 
)f years standing ; 
ar me as interested 
fame, so splendidly 
of tb 



ill be received witli great 
i of your genius will have 
power to warm, even us frozen sisters of the 

The friends of K k and K e 

i cordial regards to you. When you 









:ne of us reading yc 
>okin 



idea, 






lr poems, 
;, aud my little Hugh 
e, and you'll seldom 
;mber Mr N. with as 
do any body, who hur- 



be wrong, 
much good w 
ried Mr Burn 

Farewell, sir. I can only contribute the wi- 
dow's mite to the esteem and admiration excited 
by your merits and genius, but this I give, as 
.she did, with all my heart — being sincerely 

E. R. 



the bottom a name that I shall ever value with 
grateful respect, «'I gapit wide bit naething 
spak. " I was nearly as much struck as the 
friends of Job, of affliction-bearing memory, 
when they sat down with him seven days and 
seven nights, and spake not a word. 

I am naturally of a superstitious cast, and aa 
soon as my wonder-scared imagination regained 
its consciousness and resumed its functions, I 
cast about what this mania of yours might por- 
tend. My foreboding ideas had the wide stretch 
of possibility ; and several events, great in 
their magnitude, and important in their con- 
sequences, occurred to my fancy. The down- 
fal of the conclave, or the crushing of the cork 
rumps ; a ducal coronet to Lord George G 
and the protestant interest ; or St Peter's key 

You want to know how I come on. I am 

just in statu quo, or, not to insult a gentleman, 
with my Latin, "in auld use and wont." 
The noble Earl of Glencairn took me by the 
hand to-day, and interested himself in my con- 
cerns, with a goodness like that benevolent be- 
ing, whose image he so richly bears. He is a 
stronger proof of the immortality of the soul, 
than any that philosophy ever produced. A 
mind like his can never die. Let the worship- 
ful squire, H. L. or the reverend Mass J. M. 
go into their primitive nothing. At best they 
are but ill-digested lumps of chaos, only one of 
them strongly tinged with bituminous particles 
and sulphureous effluvia. But my noble patron, 
eternal as the heroic swell of magnanimity, and 
the generous throb of benevolence, shall look 
on with princely eye at " the war of elements, 
the wreck of matter, and the crash of worlds. " 



TO MRS DUNLOP. 

Edinburgh, 2\st January, 1783. 
After six weeks confinement, Iain beginning to 
walk across the room. They have been six 
horrible weeks ; anguish and low spirits made 
me unfit to read, write, or think. 

I Have a hundred times wished that one could 
resign life as an officer resigns a commission : 
for I would not tote in any poor, ignorant 
wretch, by selling out. Lately I was a six- 
penny private ; and, Cod knows, a miserable 
soldier enough ; now I march to the campaign, 
a starving cadet : a little more conspicuously 
wretched. 

I am ashamed of all this ; for though I do 
want bravery Ifor the warfare of life, I could 
wish, like some other soldiers, to have as much 
fortitude or cunning as to dissemble or conceal 






WSAR SIR, Edinburgh, 1787. 

I suppose the devil is so elated with his success 
with you, that he is determined by a coup de 
main to complete his purposes on you all at 
once, in making you a poet. I broke open the 
letter you sent me : hummed over the rhymes ; 
and, as I saw they were extempore, said to my- 
self they were very well i but when I saw at 



I can bear the journey, whicli 
will be, I suppose, about the middle of next 
week, I leave Edinburgh, and soon after I shall 
pay my grateful duty at Dunlop-House. 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



EXTRACT OF A LETTER. 

TO THE SAME. 

Edinburgh, l&kFOruaiy, 17SS. 
Some things ia your late letters, hurt Die : not 
that you say them, but that you mistake me. 
Religon, my honoured Madam, has not only 
been all my life my chief dependence, but my 
dearest enjoyment, I have indeed been the luck- 
less victim of w a;, ward follies; but alas! I 
cave ever been "more fool than knave." A 
mathematician without religion, is a proba- 
ble character ; an irreligious poet, is t; a:on- 



TO A LADY. 

MADAM, Mbssgfei, IthMarck, 17S5. 

1h* las; paragraph in yours of the 30. b Feb- 
ruary affected me most, so I shall begin my 
answer where you ended your letter. That I 
am often a siuner with any little wit I have, I 
do confess ; but I have taxed my recollection to 
so purpose, to find out when it was employed 
against yon. I ha:e an ungenerous sarcasm, 
a great deal worse than I do the devil ; at 
l describes him ; and though I 



iscaily 



.ugh to be s 



s guilty 



elf, I cannot endure it 
You, mv honoured friend, who cannot appear 
ia any light, tut yon ?.re sure of being respec- 
table — you can afford to pass by an occasion to 
display your wit, because you may depend for 
fir^e on your sense ; or if you choose to be silent, 
you know you can rely on the gratitude of 
many and the esteem of ali ; but Goi help 



who are wits 
land uot for 
I aai bighl 


or witlings by profession, if we 
fame there, we sink uusupooried ! 
v flattered bv the news vou tell me 


if Cbi a. * 


may say to the fair painter who 



r , at bis Muse S:o.ia. iroai which, 
by the bye, I took the idea of Coila : ('Tis a 
poem of Beanie's in toe Scots dialect, which 
perhaps you have never seen :) 

'" Ye shake your head, but o' my fegs, 
- Ye've se: auld Scotia on her legs: 
La-g had she lien wi' buffs and flees, 
Bouibazed and dizzie, 
Her fiddle wanted strings and pegs, 



No. XLYIII. 
TO MR ROBERT CLEGHORX. 



a track of melancholy joyless niuirs, bef.Teen 
Galloway and Ayrshire, it being Sunday, I 
turned my thoughts to psalms, and by nans, and 
spiritual songs ; and your favourite air, Captain 
O'Kean, coming at length in my head, I tried 
these words to it. You will see that the first 
part of the tune must be repeated. \ 

I am tolerably pleased with these verses, but 
a.i I have only a sketch of the tone, I leave it 
wiih you to try if they suit the measure of the 

I am so harassed with care and anxiety 
about thi farming prcject of mine, that my 
muse has degenerated into the veriest prose- 
wench that ever picked cinders, or followed a 
linker. When I am fairly got into the routine 
of business, I stiall trouble jou with a longer 
epistle ; perhaps with some queries respecting 
farming : at present, the world sits such a load 
on my tcind, that it has effaced almost every 
trace of the in me. 

My very best compliments, and good wishes 
to Mrs C.eghorn. 



FROM MR ROEERT CLEGHORX. 
5: gifou Mills, 271* April, 17S8. 

UV REAR BROTHER FARMER, 

I was favoured with your very kind letter of the 
31st nit. and consider myself greatlj obliged to 
yon, for your attention in seudin? me the song 
to my favourite air, Captain O'Kean. Tha 
words delight me much ; ihey fit the tune to a 
hair. I wish you would send me a verse or 

would have it in the Jacobite style. Suppose 
it should be sur.g after the fatal field of Cull Jden 
b* the unfortunate Charles: Tenducci p rso- 
n; - es the lovely Mary Stuart in the song Q-ncn 
Mary's Lamentation. — Why may not I sing in 
the person of her great- great-great grandson ?f 



i 



f Here the bard gives the first stanza of the 
Chevalier's Lament. 

f Our poet took this advice. The whole cf 
this beautiful soag, as it was afterwards finish- 
ed, is below : — 

THE CHEVALIER'S LAMEXT. 

The small birds rej.ice in the green leaves re- 

The murmuring streamlet winds clear thro 

the va'.e ; 
The hawthorn trees blow in the dews of the 

And wild scattered cowslips bedeck the gretn 
dale: 

Bat whit can give pleasure, or what can seen 
While Uie lingering moments are numbered by 
No flowers gaily springing, nor birds sweetly 
Can soothe the sad bosom of joyl«:s despair. 



BURNS.— LETTERS. 



Any skill I have in country business yoi 
may truly command. Situation, soil, custom: 
of countries may vary from each other, bu 
Farmer Attention is a pood farmer in ever] 
place. I beg to hear from you soon. Air: 
Ceghorn joins me in best compliments. 

I am, in the most comprehensive sense o: 
tho word, your verv sincere friend, 

ROBERT CLEGHORN. 



TO MRS DUNLOP. 

MADAM, Maucfdine, 2Sth April, 17S8. 
Your powers of reprehension must be great 
indeed, as I assure you they made ray he;irt 
ache with penitential pangs, even though 1 .as 
really not guilty. As I commence farmer at 
"Whitsunday, you will easily guess I must be 
pretty busy ; but that is not all. As I got the 
offer of the excise business without solicitation ; 
inly six months' attendance 



for k 



title me to a 



1 commission lies by me, and at any 
future period, on my simple petition, can be 
resumed ; I thought five and thirty pounds 
a-year was no bad dernier resort for a poor 
poet, if fortune in her jade tricks should kick 
Lira down from the little eminence- to which 
she has lately helped him up. 

For this reason, I am at present attending 
these instructions, to have them completed 
before Whitsunday. Still, madam, 1 pre- 
pared with the sincerest pleasure lo meet jou 
at the Mount, and came to my brother's* on 
Saturday night, to set out on Sunday ; but for 
some nights preceding I had slept in au apart- 
ment, where the force of the winds and rain 
ivas only mitigated by being sifted through 
numberless apertures in the windows, walks, 
&c. In consequence, I was on Sunday, 
Monday, and part of Tuesday unable to stir 
out of bed, with all the miserable effects of a 
violent cold. 

You see, madam, the truth of the French 
maxim, Le vrui n'csl pas toujours le vrai- 
temblable ; your last was so full of expostula- 
tion, and was something so like the language 
of an offended friend, that I began to tremble 
for a correspondence, which I had with grate- 
ful pleasure set down as one of the greatest 
enjoyments of my future life. 

Your books have delighted me; Virgil, 



The deed that I dared could it merit their 

malice — 
A ki . and a father to place on his throne ? 
His n-ht are these hills and his right are these 

Where the wild beasts find shelter, but I can 



find n 

But 'tis cot "my sufferings thus wretched, for- 

My brave gallant friends '119 your ruin I mourn ; 
Your deeds proved so loyal, in hot blrody trial, 
Alas ! can I make you no sweeter return"'. 



FROM THE REY. JOHN SKINNER. 

DEAR SIR, Linshart, 28th April, 178S. 
I received your last, with the curious present 
you have favoured me with, and would have 
made proper acknowledgments before now, but 
that I have been necessarily engaged in mat- 
ters of a different complexion. And now that 
I have got a little respite, I make use of it to 
thank you for this valuable instance of your 
good will, and to assure you that, with the 
sincere heart of a true Scotsman, I highly 
esteem both the gift and the giver ; as a small 
testimony of which I have herewith sent you 
for your amusement (and in a form which I 
hope you will excuse for saving postage), the 
two songs I wrote about to you already. 
CiuD-ming Nancy is the real production of 
genius in a ploughman of twenty years of age 
at the time of its appearing, with no mora 
education than what he picked up at an eld 
farmer grandfather's fireside, though now, by 
the strength of natural parts, he is clerk to a 
thriving bleachfield in the neighbourhood. 
And I doubt not but you will find in it a sim- 
plicity and delicacy, with some turns of 
humour, that wiil please one of your taste; at 
least it pleased me when I iirst saw it, if that 
can be any recommendation to it. The other 



e of i: 



> you 



* CHARMING NANCY. 

A SOXG, BI A BUCHAN PLOUGHMAX. 

Tune—" Humours of Glen- " 

Some sin? of sweet Mollv, some sing of fair 
Nell,, 
And some call sweet Susie the cause of their 
pain : 
Some love to be jolly, some love melancholy, 
And some love to sing of the Humours of 

But my only fancy, is my pretty Nancy, 

In venting my passion, I'll strive to be plain, 
I'll ask no more treasure, I'll seek no more 

But thee, my dear Nancy, gin thou wert my 

Her beauty delights me.herkindnessinvitesme, 

Her pleasant'behaviour is free from all stain ; 

Therefore, my sweet jewel, O do not prove 

Consent, my dear Nancy, and come be my 



She's blooming in feature, she's handsome in 
stature, 
My charming dear Nancy, wert thou my 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



Yon -will oblige me by presenting my respects 
to your host, Mr Cruikshank, who has given 



Like PhcDbus adorning the fair ruddy morning, 
Her bright eyes are sparkling, her brows are 



The whole of her face is wi( 
Array 'd like the gowans, 



My charming, sweet Nancy, wert thou 

I'll seek through the nation for some habita- 
To shelter my dear from the cold, snow, and 
my deary, I'll keep her aye 
sweet Nancy, gin thou wert 



With songs 
My charm ii 



I'll work at my calling to furnish thy dwa.l'ng, 
"With ev'ry thing needful thy life to sustain ; 

Thou shalt not sit single, tut by a clear iugle, 
I'll marrow thee, Nancy, when thou art my 



I'll make true affection the constant direction 

Of loving my >iancy while life doth remain : 
Tho' youth will be wasting, true love shall be 



My char 



sweet Nancy, gin thou wert 



But what if my Nancy should aid 

To favour another be forward aim ram, 

I will not compel her, but plainly I'll tell h 
Begone, thou false Nancy, thou'se ne'er 
my ain. 

THE OLD MAN'S SONG. 

Tune— " Dumbarton's Drums. " 

By the Reverend J. S kisser. 



For how happy now am 

With my old wife silting 

And our bairns" and our oes all a: 



jui.d a 



We began in the world wi' naething, O, 
And we've jogg'd on, and toil'd for the ae 
thing, O ; 
We made use of what we had, 
And our thankful hearts were glad, 
When we got the bit meat and the claith- 
ing, 0. 

We have lived all our lifetime contented, O, 
Since the day we became first acquainted, : 

It's true we've been but pc>r, 

And we are so to this hour, 
Yet we never pined nor lamented, O. 

We ne'er thought of schemes to be wealthy, O. 

By ways that were cunning or stealthy, O, 
But we always had the bliss, 
And what farther could we wiss. 

To be pleased wi* ourselves, and be healthy, 0. 



such high approbation to my poc 

■ — may Jet him know, that as I have likewise 



r Lattnity ; 



been a dabbler in Latin poetry, I have 
things that I would, if he desires it, submit 
not to his judgment, but to his amusement: 
the one, a translation of Christ's Kirk o' the 
Green, printed at Aberdeen some years ago; 
the other Batrachomyomachia Humeri Latinia 
versibiis cum additameniis, given in lately to 
Chalmers, to print if he pleases. Mr C. will 
know Seria non semper deltctant, non jcca 
semper. Semper delectant seria mixta jocis. 

I have just room to repeat compliments and 
good wishes from, 

Sir, your humble servant, 

JOHN SKINNER. 



No. L1L 

TO PROFESSOR DUGALD STEWART. 

sir, Alauchline, 2d May, 1787. 

I inclose you one or two more of my baga- 
svishes of honest gratitude 
ith that great, unknown 
ho frames the chain of causes and 
rosperity and happiness will attend 
the Continent, and return you safe 



telles. If the fer 



shore. 

erever I am, allow me, sir, to claim it as 
vilege, to acquaint jou with my progress 
trade of rhymes ; as I am sure I could 
with truth, "that, next to my little fame, 
lie having it in my power to make life 



What fbo' wecanna boast of our guineas, O, 
We have plenty of Jockies, and Jeanies, O, 

Moie desirable by far, 
Than a pock full of poor yellow sleenies, O. 

We have seen many wonder and ferley, O, 

Of changes that almost are yearly, O, 

Among rich folk, np and down, 

Both in country and in town, 

Who now live but scrim ply, and barely, O. 

Then why should people brag of prosperity, O ? 

A straitened life we see is no rarity, O ; 
Indeed we've been in want, 
And our living been but scant, 

Yet we never were reduced to need charity, O. 






st came together, O, 

een a Father and Mither, O, 

of stone and lime, 



In this house we i 
Where we've long 

And tho' m 

It will last 
And, 1 hope, we shall never need ariither, O. 

And when we leave this habitation, O, 

'11 depart w ith a good commendation, O, 

We'll go hand in hand, I wiss, 

To a better house than this, 
To make room for the next generation, O. 

Then why should old age so much wound u» 
O, 

There is nothing in it all to confound us, : 
For how happy now am I, 
With my auld wife sitting by, 

And our bairns and our oes all around u§, 



BURNS LETTERS. 



107 



more comfortable to those whom nature has 
made dear to me, I shall ever regard your 
countenance, your patronage, your iriendly 
good offices, as the most valued consequence of 
my Jate success in life. 



EXTRACT OF A LETTER 

TO MRS DUNLOP. 

MADAM, Mauchline, 4th May, 17S8. 

Dryden's Virgil has delighted me. I do not 
know whether the critics will agree with me, 
but the Georgics are to me by far the best of 
Virgil. It is indeed a species of writing en- 
tirely new to me ; and has filled my head with 
a thousand fancies of emulation : but, alas ! 
when I read the Georgics, and then survey my 
own powers, 'tis like the idea of a Shetland 
poney, drawn up by the side of a thorough-bred 
hunter, to start for the plate. I own 1 am dis- 
appointed in the Mneid. Faultless correctness 
may please, and does highly please the lettered 
critic ; but to that awful character I have not 
the most distant pretensions. I do not know 
whether I do not hazard my pretensions to be 
a critic of any kind, when I say that I think 
Virgil, in many instances, a servile copier of 
Homer. If I had the Odyssey by me, I could 
parallel many passages where Virgil has evi- 
dently copied, but by no means improved 
Homer. Nor can I think there is any thing 
of this owing to the translators ; for, from 
every thing I have seen of Dryden, I think him, 
in genius and fluency of language, Pope's 
master. I have not perused Tasso enough to 
form an opinion : in some future letter, you 
shall have my ideas of him ; though I am con- 
scious ray criticisms must be very inaccurate, 
and imperfect, as there I have ever felt and la- 
mented my want of learning most. 



TO THE SAME. 

MADAM, 27th May, 1788. 

I have been torturing my philosophy to no pur- 
pose, to account for that kind partiality of 
yours, which, unlike . . . . . . . ., 

has followed me in my return to the shade of 
life, with assiduous benevolence. Often did I 
regret in the fleeting hours of my late will-o'- 
wisp appearance, that ■• here I had no continu- 
ing city ;" and but for the consolation of a few 
solid guineas, could almost lament the time 
that a momentary acquaintance with wealth 
and splendour put me so much out of conceit 
with the sworn companions of my road through 
life, insignificance and poverty. 

There are few circumstances relating to the 
unequal distribution of the good things of this 
life, that give me more vexation (I mean in 
what I see around me) than the importance the 
opulent bestow on their trifling family affairs, 
compared with the very same things on the 
contracted scale of a cottage. Last afternoon I 



had the honour to spend an honr or two at a 
good woman's fireside, where the planks that 
composed the floor were decorated with a 
splendid carpet, and the gay table sparkled 
with silver and china. Tis now about term- 
day, and there has been a revolution among 
those creatures, who, though in appearance 
partakers, and equally noble partakers of the 
same nature with madame ; are from time to 
time, their nerves, their sinews, their health, 
strength, wisdom, experience, genius, time, 
nay, a good part of their very thoughts, sold for 

months and years » 

not only to "the necessities, the conveniences, 
but the caprices of the important few.* We 
talked of the insignificant creatures ; nay, not- 
withstanding their general stupidity and ras- 
cality, did some of the poor devils the honour 
to commend them. Rut light be the turf upon 
his breast, who taught "Reverence thyself." 
We looked down on the unpolished wretches, 
their impertinent wives and clouterly brats, as 
the lordly bull does on the little dirty anl-bili, 
whose puny inhabitants he crushes in the care- 
lessness of his ramble, or tosses in air in the 
wantonness of his pride. 



No. LV. ' 
TO THE SAME. 

AT MR DUNLOP's, HADDINGTON, 

Ellisland, 13th June, 1788. 

" Where'er I roam, whatever realms I see, 
My heart, untravell'd, fondly turns to thee ; 
Still to my friend it turns with ceaseless pain, 
And drags at each remove a lengthen 'd chain." 
Goldsmith. 

This is the second day, my honoured friend, 
that I have been on my farm. A solitary in- 
mate of an old, smoky spence ; far from every 
object I love, or by whom I am lo\ed ; nor any 
acquaintance older than \esterday, except Jiimy 
Geddes, the old mare I ride on ; while uncouth 
cares, and novel plans, hourly insult my 
awkward ignorance and bashful inexperience. 
There is a foggy atmosphere native to my sou! 
in the hour of care, consequently the dreary ob. 
jects seem larger than the life. Extreme sen-, 
sibility, irritated and prejudiced on the gloomy 
side by a series of misfortunes and disappoint- 
ments, at that period of my existence when tne 
soul is laying in her cargo of idea9 for the 
vojage of life, is, I believe, the principal cause 
of this unhappy frame of mind. 



D1A.M0XD CABINET LIBRARY. 



mercy of the naked elements, but as I enabled 
her to purchase a shelter ; and there is no sport- 
ing with a fellow-creature's happiness, or 

The most placid good-nature and sweetness 
of disposition ; a -warm heart, gratefully devoted 
with ail its powers to love me ; vigorous health 
and sprightly cheerfulness, set off to the best 
advantage, by a more thaa commonly handsome 
figure; these, I think, in a woman, may make 
a good wife, though she should never have read 
a page, but the Scriptures cf Ike Gld and Xew 
Testament, uor have cacced in a brighter as- 
sembly tbau a penny pay-wedding. 



No. LVI. 
TO MR P. HILL, 

MI DEAR HILL, 
I shaii s?-y nothing at all to your msd present 
— you have bo long and of.en been of impor- 
tant service to me, and I suppose you mean to 
go on conferring obligations until' I shall not 
be able to lift up ray fa:e before you. In the 
meantime, as Sir Roger de Coverly, because 
it happened to be a cold day in which he made 
his will, ordered his servants great coats for 
mourning, so, because I have been this week 
plagued with an indigestion, I have sent you 
by the carrier a fine old ewe-milk cheese. 

Indigestion is the devil : nay, 'lis the devil 
fcnd all. It besets a man in every one of his 
senses. I lose my appetite at the sight of suc- 
cessful knavery ; and sicken to loathing at the 
noise and nonsense of self-important folly. 
When the hollow-hearted wretch takes me by 
the hand, the feeling spoils my dinner ; the 
proud man's wine so offends my palate that it 
chokes me in the gullet : and the pulvilised, 
feathered, pert coxcomb, is so disgustful in my 
nostril that my stomach turns. 

If ever yoa have any of these disagreeable 
sensations, let me prescribe for vou patience aud 
a bit of my cheese. I know that you are no 
niggard of your good thi-gs among your friends, 
and some of them are in much need of a slice. 
There in my eye is our friend Smellie, a man 
positively of "the first abilities and greatest 
strength of mind, as well as one of the best 
hearts and keenest wits that I have ever met 
with : when you see him, as alas ! he too is 
smarting at "the pinch of distressful circum- 
stances, aggravated by the sneer of contumeli- 
ous greatness — a bit «f my cheese alone will 
not cure him, but if you add a tankard of 
brown stout, and superadd a magnum of right 
Oporto, you will see his sorrows vanish like the 
morning mist before the summer sun. 

C - h, the earliest friend, except my 

only brother, that I have on earth, and one of 
the" worthiest feliows that ever any man called 
by the name of friend, if a luncheon of my 
cheese would help to rid him of some of his 
superabundant modesty, you would do well to 

David* with his Courant comes, too, across 
my recollection, an.! I beg you will help him 
largely from the said ewe-milk cheese, to en- 



* Printer of the Edinburgh EvcniDgCcurant. 



able him to digest those bedaubing 

paragraphs with which he is eternally larding 
the iean characters of certain great men in a 
certain great town. I grant you the periods 
are very well turned : so, a fresh egg is a very 
good thing ; but when thrown at a man in a 
pillory it does not at all improve his figure, not 
to mention the irreparable loss of the egg. 

My facetious friend, D r, 1 would 

wish also to be a partaker; not to digest his 
spleen, for that he laughs off, but to digest his 
last night's wine at the last field-day of the 
Crochallan corps, f 

Among cur common friends I must not for- 
get one of the dearest of them, Cunningham. 
The brutality, insolence, ana selfishness of a 
world unworthy of having such a fellow as he 
is in it, I know sticks in his stomach, and if 
ycu can help him to any thing that will make 
him a little easier on that score, it will be very 

As to honest J S e, he is such 

a contented happy man, that I know not what 
can annoy him, except perhaps he may not have 
got the better of a parcel of modest "anecdotes 
which a certain poet gave him one night at 
supper, the last time said poet was in town. 

Though I have mentioned so many men of 
law, I shall have nothing to do with them pro- 
fessedly— the Faculty are beyond my prescrip- 
tion. As to their clients, tha't is another thing ; 
God knows they have much to digest ! 

The clergy I pass by ; their profundity of 
erudition, and their liberality of sentiment; 
their total want of pride, and their detestation 
of hypocrisy, are, so proverbially notorious, as 
to place them far, far above either my praise 
or censure. 

I was goins to mention a man of worth, 
ar to call friend, the 
but I have spoken 

nave, at tne next county-meeting, a large ew 
milk cheese on the table, for the benefit of t 
Dumfriesshire whigs, to enable them to digest 
the Duke of Queensberry "s late political cou- 

I have just this moment an opportunity of a 
private hand to Edinburgh, as perhaps you 
would not digest double postage. 



TO MRS DUXLOP. 

MaucMine, 2d August, 1788. 

HOX. TJRED MADAM, 
Your kind letter welcomed me yesternight, 
to Ayrshire. I am indeed seriously angry with 
you at the quantum of your luckpenny ; but 
vexed and hurt as I was, I could not help 
laughing very heartily at the noble lord's 
apology for the missed napkin. 

I would write you from Nithsdale, and give 
you my direction there, but I have scarce an 
opportunity of calling at a post-office once in 
a fortnight'. I am six miles from Dumfries, 
am scarcely ever in it my-elf, and, as\et, have 
little acquaintance iu the neighbourhood. 



t A dub of choice spirits. 



whom I have the bono 
Laird of Craigdarroch ; 
the landlord of the Kin: 



BURNS LETTERS. 



Besides, I am now very busy on my fain 
building a dwelling-house; as at present I ai 
almost an evangelical man in Nithsdale, for 
have scarce " where to lay my head. " 

There are some passages in your last thi 
brought tears in my eyes. ■ 

i 



■ The heart k 
a stranger iuter- 
eddleth not therewith." The repository of 
these "sorrows of the heart," 



sanctorum ; and 'tis only a chosen 
friend, and that too at particular, sacred times, 
who dares enter into them. 



Ycu will excuse this quotation for the sake 
of the author. Instead of entering on this sub- 
ject farther, I shall transcribe you a few lines 
I wrote in a hermitage belonging to a gentle- 
man in my Nithsdale neighbourhood. They 
are almost the only favours the muse has con- 
ferred on me in that country. 

Thou whom chance may hither lead, 
Be thou clad in russet weed, 
Be thou deck'd in silken stole, 
Grave these maxims on thy soul : 
Life is but a day at most, 
Sprung from night, in darkness lost ; 
Hope not sunshine ev'ry hour ; 
Fear not clouds will ever lour. 

Happiness is but a name, 
Make content and ease thy aim. 
Ambition is a meteor-gleam : 
Fame an idle restless dream : 
Peace, the tenderest flower of spring ; 



Plea 



a the 



Those that sip the dew alone, 
Make the butterflies thy own : 
Those that would the bloom devour, 
Crush the locusts, save the flower. 
For the future be prepared, 
Guard wherever thou canst guard ; 
But, thy utmost duly done, 
Welcome what thou canst not shun. 
Follies past give thou to air, 
Make their consequence thy care : 
Keep the name of man in mind, 
And dishonour not thy kind. 
Reverence with lowly heart 
Hiun whose wondrous work thou art; 
Keep his goodness still in view, 
Thy trust and thy example too. 
, Stranger, _go ! heaven be thy guit e ! 
Quod the Beadesman of Nith-side. 

Since I am in the way of transcribing, the 
following were the production of yesterday as 
I jogged through the wild hills of New Cum- 
nock. I intended inserting them, or something 
like them, in an epistle 1 am going to write to 
the gentleman on whose friendship my excise 
hopes depend, Mr Graham of Fin try ; one of 
the worthiest and most accomplished gentlemen, 
not only of this country, but I will dare to say 
it, of this age. The following are just the first 
crude thoughts, " unhousell'd, unanointed, un- 
aneall'd. " 

Pity the tuneful muses' helpless train ; 
Weak, timid landsmen on life's stormy main : 



The world were bless 'd, did bless on them de- 

Ah, that "the friendly e'er should want a 

friend!" 
The little fate bestows they share as soon ; 
Unlike sage, proverb 'd, wisdom's hard-wrung 

Let prudence number o'er each sturdy son 
Who life and wisdom at one race begun ; 
Who feel by reason and who give by rule; 
Instinct's a brute and sentiment a fool ! 
Who make poor tcill do wait upon I should ; 
We own they're prudent, but who feels they 're 
good ? 

Yew 



Here the muse left me. I am astonished at 
what you tell me of Anthony's writing me. I 
never received it. Poor fellow ! you vex ma 
much by telling me that he is unfortunate. J 
shall be in Ayrshire ten days from this date. I 
have just room for an old Roman farewell. 



TO THE SAME, 

Mauchline, 10th August, 1788. 
MY MUCH HONOURED FRIEND, 
Yours of the 24th June is before me. I found 
it, as well as another valued friend— my wife, 
waiting to welcome me to Ay rshire : I met both 
with the sincerest pleasure. 

When I write you, Madam, I do not sit 
down to answer every paragraph of yours, by 
echoing every sentiment like the faithful com- 
mons of Great Britain in parliament assembled, 
answering a speech from the best of kings ! I 
express myself in the fulness of my heart, and 
may perhaps be guilty of neglecting some of your 
kind inquiries ; but not from your very odd 
reason that I do not read your letters. All 
your epistles for several months have cost me 
nothing, except a swelling throb of gratitude, 
or a deep-felt sentiment of \ 



Mrs Burns, Madam, is the identical woman 



When she first found herself f< as women wish 
to be who love their lords;" as I loved her 
nearly to distraction, we took steps for a pri- 
vate marriage. Her parents got the hint ; and 
not only forbade He her company and their 
house, but on my rumoured West Indian voy- 
age, got a warrant to put me in jail, 'till I 
should find security in my about-to-be paternal 
relation. You know my lucky rever.-.e of for- 
tune. On my eclatant return to Mauchline, I 
was made very welcome to visit my girl. The 
usual consequences began to betray her ; and as 
I was at that time laid up a cripple in Edin- 
burgh, she was turned, literally turned out of 
doors, and I wrote to a friend to shelter her, 
till my return, when our marriage was declar- 
ed. Her happiness or misery was iu my 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



I can easily fancy a more agreeable corapa 
nion for my journey of life, but, upon m 
honour, I have never sein the individual in 



Circumstanced as I am, I could never hi 
got a female partner for life, who could h; 
entered into my favourite studies, relished my 
favourite authors, &c. without probably er 
tailing on me, at the same time, expensive liv, 
ing,fantastic caprice, perhaps apish affectatiot 
with all the other blessed boarding-school a< 
quirements, which (pirdannez moi, maiiaim) 
are sometimes to be found among females of 
the upper ranks, but almost universally per- 
!S cf the would-be-gentry. 



rade the n 



I like your way in your church-yard lucu- 
brations. Thoughts that are the spontaneous 
result of accidental situations, either respect- 
ing health, place, or company, have often a 
strength, and always an originality, that would 
in vain b looked for in fancied circumstances 
and studi .d paragraphs. For me, I have often 
thought of keeping a letter, in progression, by 
Tne, to send you when the sheet was written 
out. Now l"taik of sheets, I must tell you, 
my reason for writing to you on paper of this 
kind, is my pruriency of writing to jou at 
large. A page of post is on suc.i a dissocial, 
narrow-minded scale, that I cannot abide it ; 
and double letters, at least in my miscellaneous 
reverie manner, are a monstrous tax in a close 
correspondence. 



TO THE SAME. 

EMsland, \GthAugvsl, 17SS. 
I am in a fine disposition, my honoured friend, 
to send you an elegiac epistle ; and want only 
genius to make it quite fehenstonian. 

"Why droops my heart with fancied woes 
forlorn ! 
Why sinks my soul beneath, each wintry 
sky?" 

My increasing cares in this, as yet, stra' ge 
country — gloomy conjectures in the dark visla 
of futurity — consciousness cf my own inability 
for the struggle of the world — my broadened 
mark to misfortune in a wife and children : — I 
could indulge these reflections, 'lill my hum- 
our should ferment into the most acrid chagrin, 
that would corrode the verv thread of life. 

To counterwork these baneful fe. lings, I 
have sat down to write to you ; as I declare 
upon my soul I always find that the most sove- 
reign balm for my wounded spirit. 

1 was yesterday at Mr 's to dinner, 

for the first time. My reception was quite to 
my mind; from the lady of the bouse cute 
flattering. She sometimes hits on a couplet or 
two, impromptu. She repeated on* or two 
to the admiration of all present. My suffrage 
as a professional man was expected : I for once 
went agonizing over the belly of my con- 



science. Pardon me, ye, my adored house- 
hold gods, Independence of Spirit, and Integ- 
rity of Soul! In the course of conversation, 
Johnson's Musical Museum, a collect ; on of 
Scottish songs with the music, was talked of. 
We got a song en the harpsichord, begin- 
ning 

" Raving winds around her blowing. " 

The air was much admired : the lady of the 

house asked me whose were the words 

" Mine, madam —they are indeed my verv best 
verses:" she took not the smallest notice of 
them : The old Scottish proverb says, weli, 
" king's caff is better than ither folk's corn. " 
I was going to make a New Testament quota- 
tion about " casting pearls;" but that would 
be too virulent, for the lady is actually a wo- 



a of s, 



e and taste- 



After all that has been said on the other 
side of the question, man is by no means a 
happy creature. 1 do not speak of the select- 
ed few, favoured by partial heaven, whose 
souls are tuned to gladness amid riches and 
honours, and prudence and wisdom — I speak 
of the neglected many, whese nerves, whose 
sinews, whose days are sold to the minions of 
fortune. 

If I thought you had never seen it, I would 
transcribe for you a stanza of an old Scottish 
ballad, called "The L'fe and Age of Man, be- 
ginning thus, 

" 'Twas in the sixteenth hunder year 
Of God, and fifty three, 
Frae Christ was boru, that bought lis dear, 
As writings iestifie. " 

I had an old grand-uncle, with whom my 
mother lived a while in her girlish years ; the 
good old man, for such he was, was long blind 
ere he died, during which time, his highest 
enjoyment was tositdewn and cry, while my 
mother would sing the simple old song of 27w 
Life and Age of Man. 

It is thin way of thinking— it is those me- 

Dcholy truths, that make religion so precious 

to the poor, miserable children of men— If it 

"s a mere phantom, existing only ia the heated 

^agination of enthusiasm, 

* What truth on earth so precious as the 



My idle reasonings sometimes make me a 
little sceptical, but the necessities of my heart 
always give the cold philosophizings the lie. 
"Who looks for the heart weaned from earth ; 
the soul affianced to her God ; the correspon- 
dence fixed with heaven ; the pious supplica- 
tion and devout thanksgiving, constant as the 
vicissitudes of even and morn ; who thinks to 
meet with these in the court, the palace, in 
the glare of public life ? No : to find them 
iu their precious importance and divine effi- 
cacy, we must search among the obscure re- 
cesses of disappointment, affliction, poverty, 
and distress. 

I am sure, dear madam, you are now more 
than pleased with the Lngth of my letters. I 
return to Ayrshire, middle of next week : and 
it quickcus my pace to think that there will 



BURNS. —LETTERS. 



Ill 



be a letter from you waiting me there. I must 
be here again very soon for my harvest. 



No. LX. 
TO R. GRAHAM OF FINTRY, ESQ. 

SIR, . , , 

When I had the honour of being introduced 
to you at Athole-house, I did not think so 
soon of asking a favour of you. When Lear, 
in Shakspeare, asks old Kent, why be wished 
to be in his service, he answers, •' Because you 
have that in your face which I could like to 
Call master. ' ' For some such reason, sir, do I 
now solicit your patronage. You know, I 
dare say, of an application I lately made to 
your Board to be admitted an officer of excise. 
I have, according to form, been examined by a 
supervisor, and to day I give in his certificate, 
with a request for an order for instructions. 
In this affair, if I succeed, I am afraid I shall 
but too much need a patronizing friend. Pro- 
priety of conduct as a man, and fidelity and 
attention as an officer, I dare engage for ; but 
with any thing like business, except manual 
labour, I am totally unacquainted. 

I had intended to have closed my late ap- 
pearance on the stage of life, in the character 
of a country farmer ; but after discharging 
some filial and fraternal claims, I find I couid 
only fight for existence in that miserable man- 
ner, which I have lived to see throw a venera- 
ble parent into the jaws of a jail ; whence 
death, the poor man's last and often best 
friend, rescued him. 

1 know, sir, that to need your goodness is 
to have a claim on it ; may I therefore beg 
your patronage to forward me in this affair, 
till I be appointed to a division, where, by the 
help of rigid economy, I will try to support 
that independence so dear to my soul, but 
which has been too often so distant from my 
situation. 



Then first she calls the useful many forth 
Plain plodding industry, and sober worth ; 
Thence peasants, farmers, native sons of 

earth, 
And merchandise' whole genus take their 

birth. 
Each prudent cit a warm existence finds, 
And all mechanics' many-apron 'd kinds. 
Some other rarer sorts are wanted yet, 
The lead and buoy are needful to the net : 
The caput morluum of gross desires 
Wakes a material, for mere knights and 



The ordered system fair before her stood, 
Nature well pleased pronounced it very good I 
But ere she gave creating labour o'er. 
Half-jest, she tried one curious labour more. 
Some spumy, fiery, ignis fatuus matter ; 
Such as the slightest breath of air might scat- 
ter ; 
With arch alacrity and conscious glee 
(Nature may have her whim as well as we, 
Her Hogarth-art perhaps she meant to show it) 
She forms a thing, and christens it — a poet. 
Creature, though oft the prey of c 



The 



squ.r 



martial phosphorus is taught to flow, 

kneads the lumpish philosophic dough, 

Then marks the unyielding mass with grave 

Law, physics, politics, and deep divines : 
Last, she sublimes th' Aurora of the poles, 
The flashing elements of female souls. 



e and sor- 

When bless 'd to-day unmindful of to-morrow, 
A being form'd t' amuse v his graver friends, 
Admired and praised — and there the homage 

ends: 
A mortal quite unfit for fortune's strife, 
Yet oft the sport of all the ills of life ; 
Prone to enjoy each pleasure riches give, 
Yet haply wanting wherewithal to live : 
Longing to wipe each tear, to heal each 



But honest Nature is not quite a Turk, 
She laugh 'd at first, then felt for her poor 

Pitying the propless climber of mankind, 
She cast about a sta?idard tree to find ; 
And to support his helplpss woodbine state, 
Attach'd him to the generous truly great ; — 
A title, and the only one I claim, 
To lay strong hold for help on bounteous 
Graham. 

Pity the tuneful muses' hapless train, 
Weak, timid laudmen on life's stormy main ! 
Their hearts no selfish stern absorbent stuff, 
That never gives — tho' humbly takes enough ; 
The little fate allows, they share as soon, 
Unlike sage, proverb 'd, wisdom's hard-wrung 

boon. 
The world were bless 'd, did bliss on them de- 

Ah, that " the friendly e'er should want a 

friend!" 
Let prudence number o'er each sturdy son, 
Who life and wisdom at one race begun, 
Who feel by reason, and who give by rule, 
(Instinct's a brute, and sentiment a fool !) 
Who make poor will do wait upon 1 should — 
We own they 're prudent, but who feels they 're 

good? 
Ye wise ones, hence ! ye hurt the social eye ! 
God's image rudely etch'd on base alloy ! 
But come, ye who the godlike pleasure know, 
Heaven's attribute distinguish 'd— to bestow I 
Whose arms of love would grasp the human 

Come, thou who fivest with all a courtier's 

grace ; 
Friend of my life, true patron of my rhymes ! 
Prop of my dearest hopes for future times. 
Why shrinksmy soul.half blushing.half afraid, 
Backward, abash 'd to ask thy friendly aid ? 
I know my need, I know thy giving hand, 
I crave thy friendship at thy kind command ; 
But there are such who court the tuneful nine- 
Heavens, should the branded character be 

Whose verse in manhood's pride sublimely 

flows, 
Yet vilest reptiles in their legging pros*. 



lis 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



Mark, how their lofty independent spirit 
Soars on the spurning wing of injured merit l 
Seek not the proofs in private life to find ; 
Pity, the best of words should be but wind ! 
So to heaven's gates the lark-shrill song 

But ffrovelling on the earth the carol ends. 
In all the clamorous cry of starving want, 
They dun benevolence with shameless front ; 
Oblige them, patronize their tiusel lays, 
They persecute you all your future days ! 
Ere "my poor soul such deep damnation stain, 
My horny list, assume the plough again; 
The pie-ball \i jacket let me patch once more ; 
On eighteen pence a- week I've lived before. 
Though, th inks to heaven, I dare even that 

last shift, 
I trust, meantime, my boon is in thy gift: 
That placed by thee, upon the wished-for 

height, 
Where, man and nature fairer in her sight, 
My muse mav imp her wing for some sublimer 

flisht."* 



TO MR P. HILL. 

Maucrdine, 1st October, 17SS. 
I have been here in this country about three 
days, and all that time ray chief reading has 
been the "Address to Lochlomond. " you 
were so obliging as to send to me. Were I 
Impannelled one of the author's jury, to de- 
termine his criminality respecting the sin of 
poesy, my verdict should be ** Guilty ! a poet 
of Nature's making ! " It is an excellent me- 
thod for improvement, and what I believe 
every poet does, to place some favourite classic 
author, in his own walks of study and compo- 
sition, before him, as a model. Though 
your author had not mentioned the name, I 
could have, at half a glance, guessed his model 
to be Thomson. Will my brother poet forgive 
me, if 1 venture to hint, that his imitation of 
that immortal bard, is in two or three pi: 
rather more servile than such a genius as 
required.— e. g. 



I think the Address is, in simplicity, har- 
mony, and elegance of versification, fully equal 
to the Seasons. Like Thomson, too, he has 
looked into natnre for himself: you meet with 
no copied description. One particular criti- 
cism I made at first reading : in no one in- 
stance has he said too much. He never flags 



* This is onr poet's first epistle to Graham 
of Fintry. It is not equal to the second, but 
it contains too much of the characteristic vigour 
of its author to be suppressed. A little more 
knowledge of natural history or of chemis 
was wanted to enable him to" execute the c 
ginal conception correctly. 



in his progress, but like a true Poet of Nature's 
making, kindles in his course. His beginning 
is simple, -and modest, as if distrustful of the 
strength of his piniou : only, I go not altoge- 



Fiction is the soul of many a song that is 
nobly great. Perhaps I am wrong : this may 
be but a prose criticism. Is not the phrase* 
in line 7, page 6, " Great lake," too much 
vulgarized by every-duy language, for so sub- 
lime a poem ? 



is perhaps no emendation. His enumeration 
cf a comparison with other lakes, is at once 
harmonious and poetic. Every reader's ideas 
must sweep the 

" Winding margin of an hundred miles. " 

The perspective that follows mountains blue 
— the imprisoned billows beating iu vain -the 
wooded isles— the digression of the yew tree — 
" Ren Lomond's lefty cloud-cuveicped head, " 
<tc. are beautiful. A thunder-storm is a sub- 
ject which has been often triid, yet our poet, 

1 is grand picture, has interjected a circum* 
ce, so far as I know, entirely original : 



fire. ' ' 

In his preface to the strrrn, " the glens hoiv 
dark between, " is noble Highland landscape ! 
The " rain plowing the red mould," too, is 
beautifully fancied. Ben Lomond's " lofty, 
pathless top," is a gcod expression; and the 
surrounding view from it is truly great ; the 

•« Silver mist, 
Beneath the Learning sun, " 

is well described ; and here, he has contrived 
to enliven his poem with a Little cf that passion 
which bids fair, I think, to usurp the modern 
muses altogether. I know not how far this 
episode is a beauty upon the whole, but 'he 
swain's wish to carry " some faint idea of the 
vision bright, " lo entertain her "partial lis- 
tening ear, " is a pretty thought. But, in my 
opinion, the mest beautiful passages in the 
whole poem, are the fowls crowding, in wintry 
frosts, to LocLicmond's " hcspitaLle flood ;'* 
their wheeling icund, their lighting, mixing, 
diving, &c. and the glorious uescription of the 
sportsman. Tl is last is equal to any thing in 
the Se a*ont. The idea cf ' ' the floating tribes 
distant seen, far glittering to the moon," pro- 
voking his eye rs he is obliged to leave them, 
is a noble ru_. cf poetic genius. " The howl- 
ing winds,'"' the '« h ; decus roar" cf "the 
white cascades," are all in the same style. 

I forget that wh le I am thus holding forth, 
with the heedless warmth of an enthusiast, I 
am perhaps tiring you with nonsense. 1 must, 
however, mention, that the :-i*t verse ct 'he 
s'iteeuth page is one of the most elegant com- 



BURNS. —LETTERS. 



113 



pliments I have ever seen. I must likewise 
notice that beautiful paragraph, beginning, 
•'The gleaming lake," &c. I dare not go 
into the particular beauties of the two last 
paragraphs, but they are admirably fine, and 
truly Ossianic. 

I must beg your pardon for this lengthened 
scrawl. I had no idea of it when I began — I 
should like to know who the author is ; but, 
whoever he be, please present hiui with my 
grateful thanks for the entertainment he has 
ofl'ordedme.* 

A friend of mine desired me to commission 
for him two books, Letters on the Beligiim es- 
sential to Man, a book you sent me before ; 
and, The World Unmasked, or the Philosopher 
the greatest Cheat. Send me them by the first 
opportunity. The Bible you sent me is truly 
elegant ; 1 only wish it had been in two vo- 



Mav.chline, 13th November, 1788. 
MADAM, 
I had the very great pleasure of dining 
Dunlop yesterday. Men are said to flatter 
women because they are weak ; if it is 
poets must be weaker still ; for Misses R. and 
K. and Miss G. M'K. with their flattering 
attentions, and artful compliments, absolutely 
turned my head. I own they did not lard 
ever as many a poet does his patron 
» . ...... but they so intoxicated 

me with their sly insinuations and delicate 
endos of compliment, that if it had not been 
for a lucky recollection, how much additional 
weight and lustre your good opinion and friend- 
ship must give me in that circle, I had c 
tainly looked upon myself as a person of 
small consequence. I dare not say one word 
how much 1 was charmed with the major's 
vriendly welcome, elegant manner, and acute 
•eniark, lest I should be thought to balance 
Biy orientalisms of applause over against the 
finest quey + in Ayrshire, which he made a 
present of to help and adorn my farm-stock. 
\s it was on hallow-day, I am determined 
annually as that day returns, to decorate her 
horns with aa ode of gratitude to the family of 
Dunlop. 

So soon as I know of your arrival at Dun- 
lop, I will take the first convenieucy to dedi- 
cate a day, or perhaps two, to you and friend- 
ship, under the guarantee of the major's 
hospitality. There will soon be threescore 



* The poem entitled An Address to Loch 
Lomond, is said to be written by a gentleman 
dow one of the masters of the High School at 
Edinburgh, and the same who transited the 
beautiful story of the Faria, as published in 
tke tee of Dr Anderson. 

t Heifer. 



and ten miles of permanent distance between 
and now that ycur friendship and friendly 
ispcudence is entwisted with the heart- 
strings of my enjoyment of life, 1 must indulge 
myself in a happy day of " The feast of reason 
and the flow of soul. " 



SIR, November, 8, 1"S8. 

Notwithstanding the opprobrious epithets with 
which some of our philosophers and gloomy 
sectaries have branded our nature— the princi- 
ple of universal selfishness, the proneuess to 
all evil, they have given us; still, the detes- 
tation in which inhumanity to the distressed, 
or insolence to the fallen, are held by all man- 
kind, shows that they are not natives of the 
human heart. — Even the unhappy partner of 
cur kirn', who is undone— the bitter conse- 
quence of his follies or his crimes — who but 
sympathizes with the miseries of this ruined 
profligate brother ? we forget the injuries, and 
feel for the man. 

I went last Wednesday to my perish church, 
most cordially to join in grateful acknowledg- 
ments to the Author of ail Good, for the con- 
sequent blessings of the glorious revolution. 
To that auspicious event we owe no less than 
our liberties civil and religious ; to it we are 
likewise indebted fir the present Royal Fami- 
ly, the ruling features of whose administration 
have ever been, mildness to the subject, and 
tenderness of his rights. 

Rred and educated in revolution principles, 
the principles of reason and common sense, it 
could not be any silly political prejudice which 
made my heart revolt at the harsh, abusive 
manner, in which the reverend gentleman 
mentioned the House of Stuart, and which, I 
am afraid, was too much the language of the 
day. We may rejoice sufficiently in our deli- 
verance from past evils, without cruelly raking- 
up the ashes of those, whose misfortune it was, 
perhaps as much a3 their crime, to be the 
authors of those evils ; and we may bless God 
for all his goodness to us as a nation, without, 
at the same time, cursing a few ruined, power- 
less exiles, who only harboured ideas, and 
made attempts, that most of us would have 
done, had we been in their situation. 

«* The bloody and tyrannical House of 
Sluart, " may be said with propriety and jus- 
tice when compared with the present Rojal 
Family, and the se timents of our days ; but 
is there no allowance to be made for the man- 
ners of the times ? Were the ro\al contempo- 
raries cf the Stuarts more attentive to their 
subjects' rights? Might not the epithets cf 
•'bloody and tyrannical,'' be, with at least 
equal justice, applied to the House of Tudor, 
of York, or any other of their predecessors ? 

The simple state of the case, sir, seems to 
be this — At that period the science of govern- 
ment, the knowledge of the true relation be- 
tween king and subject, was, like other sci- 
ences and other knowledge, just in its infancy. 



H 



DIAMOND CABINET L13RARY. 



t aa 



■ging from dark ages of igaorance and bar- 

Th'e Stnarts only contended for prerogatives 
which they knew their predecessors enjoyed, 
and which they saw their contemporaries en- 
joying ; but these prerogatives were isiinical to 
the happiness of a nation, and the rights of 

In this contest between prince and people, 
the consequence of that light of science, which 
had lately dawned over Europe, the monarch 
of France, for example, was victorious over 
the struggling liberties of his people: with us, 
luckily the monarch failed, and his unwarran- 
table pretensions fell a sacrifice to our rights 
and happiness. Whether it was owing to the 
wisdom of leading individuals, or to the juat- 
ling of parties, I cannot pretend to determine; 
but likewise, happily for us, the kingly power 
was shifted into another branch of the family, 
who, as they owed the throne solely to the call 
of a free people, could claim nothing inconsis- 
tent with the covenanted terms which placed 
them there. 

The Stuarts have been condemned and 
laughed at for the foily and impracticability of 
their attempts in 1715 and 1715. That they 
failed, I bless God ; but cannot join in the 
ridicnie aga : nst them. Who does not know 



that the abilities 


or defe 


cts of lead 




and 


commanders are o 






to 


the 


touchstone of ex' 






re 


s a 


caprice of fortune 




potence in 


•art 


cu- 


Jar accidents and c 










which exalt us as 




r bran! u; i 


s mad- 












' ':::.} , Mi Pfibl 




i strange, w 
vould belie 


ak, 


i : r" 






age of libera 




a ad 


refinement, while 


we seen 


a so justly 


sens 


it-le 


and jealous of our 


righ's a 


■1 1- :;=:.:=, a 


3d 


ini- 


mated with such 










memory of those 


who" wo 


lid have si 


bve 




them— that a ce 


rsain pec 


pie, under 






tioitai protection, 




3 mplain not 


aga 




our monarch and 


a~few fa 


ranrite advis 




but 


ag>inst oar wkcle 


L;gt.O.:: 


k Body, for 


si a 


;'- r 



oppre 



lad aim 



r forefathers did of the House of Stuart ! 
I will not, I cannot enter ink) the merits of the 
cause, but I dare say the American Congress, 
in 1776, will be allowed to be as ab'e and as en- 
lightened as the English convention was ia 
1SS3 ; and that their posterity will celebrate the 
centenary of their deliverance from us, asdalj 
aDd sincerely as we do ours from the oppressive 
measures of the wrong headed House of Stuart. 
To conclude, sir ; let every man who has a 
fear fur the many miseries incident to hnmani. 
ty, feel for a family illustrious as any in Eu- 
rope, and unfortunate beyond historic prece- 
dent; and let every Briton (and particularly 
every Seotsmao), who ever looked with reve- 
rential pity on tne dotage of 



* This letter was sent to the publisher of 
tome newspaper, probably the publisher of the 
Edinburgh Evening Courant. 



TO MRS DUNLOP. 
Elisland, 17 Ik December, 1788. 

MY DEAR ROKOT7AED yBIEND, 

Yours, dated Edinburgh, which I have just 
read, makes me very unhappy. Almost — blind 
and whol.y deaf," "are melancholy news of hu- 
man nature ; but when told of a much loved 
and honoured friend, they carry misery in the 
sound. Goodness on your part, and gratitude 
on mine, began a tie, which has gradually and 
strongly entwisted itself among the dearest 
chords of my bosom ; and I tremble at the 
omens of your late and present ailing habits 
and shattered health. You miscalculate mat- 
ters widely, when you forbid my waiting on 
you, le t it should hurt my worldly concerns. 
My small scale of farming is exceedingly more 
simple and easy than what vou have lately 
seen at Morel, am Mains. But be that as it 
may, the heart of the man, and the fancy of 
the poet, are the two grat.d considerations for 
which I live: if miry ridges, and dirty dung- 
hills are to engross the best part of the func- 
tions of my soul immortal, I had belter been 
a rock or a magpie at once, and then I should 
not have been plagued with any ideas superior 
to breaking of clods, and picking up grubs : 
cot to mention barn-door cocks or mallards, 
creatures with which I could almost exchange 
lives at any time. —If you continue so deaf, I 
am afraid a \isit will be uo great pleasure to 
either of us ; but if I hear you are got so well 
again as to be able to relish conversation, look 
you to it, madam, for I will make my ihreatec- 
ings good: I am to be at the new-year-day 
fair of Ayr, and by all that is sacred in the 
world, friend, I witl came and see you. 

Your meeting, which yon so well describe, 
with your old sjbcolfeljow and friend, was truly 
interesting. Out upon the ways of the world ! 
— i'hev spoil these -'social offsprings of the 
heart. 5 ' Two veterans of the "men of the 
world'' would have met, with little more heart- 
workings than two old hacks worn out on the 
road. Apropos, is not the Scotch phrase, 
I "Auld lang syne," exceedingly expressive. 
There is anold'sou^ and tune which has often 
! thrilled tbroueh mv soul. You know I am an 
| enthusiast in old Scotch songs. I shall give 
> you the verses on the other sheet, as I suppose 

Light be the turf on the breast of the Hsa- 
ven-in=Dired poet who composed this glorions 
| fragment ! Tnere is more of the fire of native 
I genius in it, than in half a dozen of modern 
: English Bacchanalian?. Now I am on my 
j hobby horse, I cannot help inserting two other 
old stanzas, which please me mightily. 

Go fetch to me a pint o' wine, 

An' fill it in a silver tassie ; 
That I may drink, before I go, 

A service to my bonr.ie lassie : 
The boat rocks at" the pier o' Leith ; 

Fa' loud the wind blaws frae the ferry, 



f Here follows the s :ng of AM tag syne 






BL'RXS LETTERS. 



The trumpets sound, the banners fly, 

Tbs flittering spears are ranked read; 
The shouts o' war are heard afar, 

The battle closes thick and blood) : 
Eut it's not the roar o* sea or shore, 

Wad make me langer wish to tarry ; 
Nor shouts o' war that's heard^afsr," 

It's leaving thee, n-y bounie Mury. 



TO A YOUNG LADY, 

WHO BAD HEARD HE HAD B£E>* MAKIX3 

A BALLAD ON HER, LNCL05LN0 THAT 

BALLAD. 

MAPAJI, December, 1788. 

I understand my vtry woithy neighbour, Mr 
Riddt), has informed you thit I have made 
you the subject of some verses. There is 
something so provoking in the idea of being 
the burden .->f a ballad, that I do not think 
Job or Moses, though such patterns cf pa- 
Sience and meekness, could have resisted the 
curios'tv to know what that ballad was ; so 
rcy worthy friend has done me a mischief, 
which I dare say he never intended ; and re- 
duced me to the unfortunste alternative of leav- 
ing your curiosity ungratitied, or else disgusting 
you with fooliah verses, the unfinished produc- 
tion of a random moment, and never meant to 
have met your ear. I have heard or read 
6omewhere of a gentleman, who had some 
genius, much eccentricity, and very consider- 
able dexterity with his pencil. Iu the acciden- 
tal groups of life into which one is thrown, 
wherever this gentleman met with a character 
in a more than ordinary degree congenial to 
his heart, he used to steal a sketch of the face, 
merely he said as a nota bene to point out the 
agreeable recollection to his memory. 'What 
this gentleman's pencil was to him, is mv muse 
to me : and the verses I do myself the honour 
to send you are a memento exactly of the same 
kind that he indulged in. 

It may be more owing to the fastidiousness 
cf my caprice, than the delicacy of my taste, 
that I am so often tired, disgusted, and hurt 
with the insipidity, affectation, and pride of 
mankind, that when I meet with a person 
" after my own heart, " I positively feel what 
an orthodox protestant would call a species of 
idolatry, which acts on my fancy like inspira- 
tion, and I can no more desist rhyming on the 
impulse, than an ^Eolian harp can refuse its 
tones to the streaming air. A distich or two 
would be the consequence, though the object 
■which hit my fancy were grey-bearded age: 
but where my theme is youth and beauty, a 
young lady whose personal charms, wit, and 
sentiment, are equally striking and unaC'ected, 
by heavens! though I had lived threescore years 
a married man, and threescore years before I 
was a married man, my imag: nation would 
hallow the very idea ; and I am truly sorry 
that the inclosed stanzas have done such poor 
ju.tice to such a subject. 



TO SIR JOHN WH1TEF0RD. 

SIR, December, 17SS. 

Mr M-Renzie, in Mauchline, my very warm 
and worthy friend, has informed me how much 
you are pleased to interest yourself in my fate 
as a man, and, (what to me is incomparably 
dearer) my fame as a poet. I have, sir, in ona 
or two instances, been patronized by those of 
your character in life, when I was introduced 

to their notice by , friends to them and 

honoured acquaintances to me : but you are the 
first gentleman in the country whose benevo- 
lence and goodness of heart has interested him 
for me, unsolicited and unknown. I am not 
master enough of the etiquette of these matters 
to know, nor did I stay to inquire, whether 
formal duty bade, or cold propriety disallowed, 
my thanking you in this manner, as I am con- 
vinced, from the light in which you kindly 
view me, that you will do me the justice to 
believe this letter is net the manoeuvre of a 
needy, sharping author, fastening on these in 
upper life, who honour him with a little notice 
of him or his works. Indeed the situation 'of 
poets is generally such, to a proverb, as may, 
in some measure palliate that prostitution ot 
heart and talents they have at times been guilty 
of. - 1 do not think prodigality is, by any means, 
a necessary concomitant of a poetic turn, but 
believe a careless, indolent inattention to eco- 
nomy, is almost inseparable from it ; then there 
must be in the heart of every bard of Nature's 
making, a certain modest sensibility, mixed 
with a kind of pride, that will ever keep him 
out of the nay of those windfalls of fortune, 
which frequently light on hardy impudence and 
foot-licking servility. It is not easy to iniagi e 
a more helpless slate than his, whose poetic 
fancy unfits him for the world, and whose 
character as a scholar, gives him some preten- 
sions to ihe pcLilesse of life — yet is as peor cs 

For my part, I thar.k Heaven, my star has 
been kincer ; learning never elevated my ideas 
above the peasant's shed, and I have an inde- 
pendent fortune at the plough-tail. 

I was surprised to hear that any one, who 
pretended in the least to the manners of the 
gentleman, should be so foolish, or worse, as to 
stoop to traduce the morals of such a one as I 
am, and so inhumanly cruel, too, as to meddle 
with that late most unfortunate, unhappy part 
of my story. 'With a tear of gratitude, I thank 
you, sir, for the warmth with which you inter- 
posed in behalf of my conduct. I am, I ac- 
knowledge, too frequently the sport of whim,, 
caprice, and passion — but reverence to God, 
and integrity tot j fellow-creatures, I Lope I 
shall ever preserve. I have no return, sir, to 
make you for your goodness but one— a return 
which. I am persuaded, will not be uuaccepta- 
ble—the honest, warm wishes of a grateful 
heart for jour happiness, end every one of that ' 
lovely flock, who stand to you in a filial rela- 
tion. If ever calumny aim the poisoned shaft 
at them, may friendship be by to ward the blowl 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



No. LXYII. 
/ROM MR G. BURNS. 

Mossgiel, 1st January, 17S9. 

DEAR BROTHER. 
I have just finUbed my new-year's-day break- 
f ast in the usual form, which naturally makes 
ine call to mind the us)s of former years, and 
the society iu which we used to begin them ; 
aud when I look at our family Tirimilwilni. 
" throush the dark postern of lime long 
elapsed,'" I cannot help remarking to you, my 
dear brother, how pood the God of Seasons 
is to us ; and that however some clouds 
seem to lower over the portion of time before 
us, we have great reason to hope that all wil' 

Your mother and sisters, with Robert thi 
second, join me in the compliments of thi 
season to you and Mrs Burns, and beg you will 
remember us in the same manner to Willia 
the first time vou see him. 

I am, dear brother, vours, 
GILBERT BURNS. 



TO MRS DUNLOP. 

EUhland, New-Year day Morning, 17S9. 
This, dear madam, is a morning of wishes, 
and would to God that I came under the 
apostle James's description — The prayer of a 
righteous man availeth muck I In that case, 
madam, you should welcome in a year full of 
blessings ; every thing that obstructs or dis- 
turbs tranquillity and self- enjoyment, should be 
removed, and every pleasure that frail huma- 
nity can taste, should be yours. I own myself 
so little a Presbyterian, that I approve of set 
times and seasons of more than ordinary acts 
of devotion, for breaking in on that habituated 
routine of iife and thought, which is so apt to 
reduce.our existence to a kind of instinct, or 
even sometimes, and with some minds, to a 
state very little superior to mere machinery. 

This "day ; the first Sunday of May ; a 
breezy, blue-skyed noon some lime about ( the 
beginning, and a hoary morning and calm sun- 
ny day about the end, of autumn : these, time 
out of mind, have been with me a kind of holi- 

I believe I owe this to that glorious paper 
in the Spectator, *« The Vision of Mirza ;" a 
piece that struck my young fancy before I was 
capable of tixiug an idea to a word of three 
syllables: "On the 5th day of the moon, 
which, according to the custom of my forefa- 
thers, I always Keep holy, after having washed 
myself, and offered up my morning devotions, 
1 ascended the high hill of Bagdat, in order to 
pass the rest of the day in meditation and 
prayer. " 

"We know nothing, or next to nothing, of 
the substance or structure of our souls, so 

them, that one should be particularly pleased 
with this thing-, or struck with that, which, cu 



minds of a different cast, makes no extraordi- 
nary .impression. I have some favourite 
flow ts in spring, among which are the moun- 
tain-daisy, the hare-bell, the fox-glove, the 
wild-brier rose, the budding birch, and the 
hoary hawthorn, that I view and hang over 
with particular delight. I never hear the loud, 
solitary whistle of the curlew, in a summer 
noon, or the wild mixing cadence of a troop of 
£rey plover, in an autumnal morning, without 
feeling an elevation of soul like ihe enthusiasm 
of devotion or poetry. Tell me, my dear 
friend, to what can this be owing? Are we 
a piece of machinery, which, like the iEolian 
harp, passive, takes the impression of the pas- 
sing accident ? Or do these workings argue 
something within us above the trodden clod ? 
I own myself partial to such proofs of those 
awful and important realities — a God that 
made all things— man's immaterial and im- 
mortal nature— and a worid of weal or woe 
beyond death ap<i the grave. 



TO DR MOORE. 
Ellisland, near Dum/rits, Uh Jan. 17S9. 



As often as I think of writing to you, which 
has been three or four times every week these 
six months, it gives me something so like the 
idea of an ordinary-sized statue offering at a 
conversation with the Rhodian Colossus, that 
my mind misgives me, and the affair always 
miscarries somewhere between purpose aud 
resohe. I have, at last, got some business 
with you, and business-letters are written by 
the style-book. — I say, my business is with, 
you, sir, for you never" had any with me, ex- 
cept the business that benevolence has in the 
mansion of poverty. 

The character and employment of a poet 
were formerly my pleasure, but are now my 
pride. I know that a very great deal of my 
late eclat was owing to the singularity of my 
situation, and the honest prejudice of Sects- 
men ; but still, as I said in the preface to my 
first edition, I do look upon myself as having 
some pretensions from Nature to the poetic 
character. I have not a doubt but the knack, 
the aptitude, to learn the muses' trade, is a 
gift bestowed by Him '« who forms the secret 
bias of the soul ;"— but I as firmly believe, that 
excellence in the profession is the fruit of in- 
ry, labour, attention, aitd pains. At least 
i resolved to try my doctrine by the test of 
experience. Another appearance from the 
press I put off to a very distant day, a day that 
may never arrive — but poesy I am determined 
to prosecute with all my vigour. Nature has 
given very few, if any, of the profession, the 
talents of shining in every species of composi« 
tion. I shall trj (for until trial it is impossi- 
ble to know) whether she has qualified me to 
shine in any one. The worst of it is, by th« 
time one has finished a piece, it has been so 
often viewed aud reviewed before the mental 
eye, that one loses, in a good measure, tho 
powers pf crUi;aJ discrimination. Here the 






BURNS.- LETTERS. 



best criterion I know is a friend— not cpIv of 
abilities to judge, but with good nature enc gh, 
like a prudent teacher with a young learnej , to 
praise perhaps a little more than is exactly 
just, lest the thin-skinned animal fall into thi-t 
most deplorable of all poetic diseases — heart- 
breaking despondency of himself. Dare I, sir, 
already immensely indebted to your goodness, 
ask the additional obligation of your being that 
friend to me P I inclose you an essay of mine, 
in a walk of poesy to me entirely new ; I mean 
the epistle addressed to R. G. Esq. or Robeit 
Graham of Fintry, Esq. a gentleman of un- 
common worth, to whom I lie under very 
great obligations. The story of the poem, like 
most of my poems, is connected with my own 
etory, and to give you the one, I must give 
you something of the other, i cannot boast 
of 

I believe, I shall, in whole, £100 copy-right 
included, clear about L400 some little odds ; 
and even part of this depends upon what the 
gentleman has jet to settle with roe. I give 
jou this information, because vou did me the 
honour to interest yourself much in my wel- 

To give the rest of my story in brief, I have 
married " my Jean, " and taken a farm ; with 
the first step I have every day more and more 
reason to be satisfied ; with the last, it is 
rather the reverse. I have a younger brother, 
who supports my aged mother; another still 
younger brother, and three sisters, in a farm. 
On my last return from Edinburgh, it cost me 
about L1B0 to save them from ruin. Not 
that I have lost so much — I only interposed 
brother and his impending fate by 



business of life, and have now not only the 
retired leisure, but the hearty inclination to 
attend to those great and important questions — 
what I am, where I am, and for what I am 



In that first < 



•n, the 



induct of the 



the ' 



i of s 

n this, for it 



ich. 1 fi 



the wrong scale of the 
balance was pretty heavily charged, and I 
thought that throwing a little filial piety, and 
fraternal affection, into the scale in my favour, 
might help to smooth matters at the grcna 
reckoning. There is still one thing would 
make my circumstances quite easy ; I have an 
excise officer's commission, and I live in the 
midst of a country division. My request to 
Mr Graham, who is one of the commissioners 
of excise, was, if in his power, to procure me 
that division. If I were very sanguine, I 
might hope that some of my great patrons 
might procure me a treasury "warrant for su- 
pervisor, 6urveyor-general, &c. 

Thus secure of a livelihood, « * to thee, sweet 
poetry, delightful maid," I would 
my future days. 



was habitually blameable, and there I have 
secured myself in the way pointed out by 
Nature and Nature's God. I was sensible 
that, to so helpless a creature as a poor poet, 
a wife and family were incumbrances, wlticU 
a specie of prudence would bid him shun; 
but when the alternative was, being at eternal 
warfars with myself, on account of habitual 
follies, to give them no worse name, which no 
general example, no licentious wit, no sophis- 
tical infidelity would, to me, ever justify, I 
must have been a foci to have hesitated, and a 
madman to have made another choice. 

In the affair of a livelihood, I think myself 
tolerably secure ; I have good hopes of my 
farm ; but should they fail, I have an excise 
commission, which on my simple petition, 
will, at any time, procure me bread. There 
is a certain stigma affixed to the character of 
an excise officer, but I do not intend to borrow 
honour from any profession ; and though the 
salary be comparatively small, it is great to 
any thing that the first "twenty-five years of my 
life taught me to expect. 

Thus, with a rational aim and method in 
life, you may easily guess, my reverend and 
much-honoured friend, that my characteristical 
trade is not forgotten. I am, if passable, more 
than ever an enthusiast to the miii-es. I am 
determined to study man and nature, and in 
that view incessantly ; and to try it' (he ripen- 
ing and corrections of years can enable me to 
produce something worth preserving. 

You will see in your b.ok, which I beg 
your pardon for detaining so long, that I have 
been tuning my lyre on the banks of Nith. 
Some larger poetic plans (hat are floating in my 
imagination, or partly put in execution,! shall 
impart to you when I have the pleasure of 
meeting with ycu, which, if you are then in 
Edinburgh, I shall have about the beginning 
of March. 

That acquaintance, worthv 
you were pleased to honour mi 



vith which 

i whatever 

unconcern I give up my transient conr.ectioa 
with the merely great, I cannot lose the pa 
tronizing notice of the learned and the good, 
without the bitterest regret. 



No. LXX. 
TO BISHOP GEDDES. 
EUhhmd near Dumfries, Sd Fib. 1789. 

VENERABLE FATHER, 
As I am conscious lhat wherever I am vou do 
me the honour to interest yourself in my wel- 
fare, it gives me pleasure to inform you," that I 
am here at last, stationary in the serious 



FROM THE REV. P. C 

SIR, 2d January, 1789. 

If you have lately seen Mrs Dunlop of Dnn- 
lop, you have certainly heard of the author of 
the verses which accompany this letter. He 
was a man highly respectable for every accom- 
plishment and virtue which adorns the char- 
acter of a maa or a Christian. To a great 



118 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



degree of literature, of taste, and poetic genius, , 
was added an invincible modesty of temper, 
which prevented, in a great degree, his figuring 
in life, and confined the perfect knowledge of 
his character and talents to the small circle of 
bis chosen friends. He was untimely taken 
from us, a few weeks ago, by an inflammatory 
fever, in the prime of life — beloved by all J 
who enjoved his acquaintance, and lamented by 
all who nave any regard for virtue or genius, j 
There is a woe pronounced in Scripture against '■ 
the person whom ail men speak well of; if 
ever that woe fell upon the head of mortal 
man, it fell upon him. He has left behind 
him a considerable number of compositions, 
chiefly poetical; sufficient, I imagine, to make 
a large octavo volume. la particular, two 
complete and regular tragedies, a farce of 
three acts, and some smaller posms on differ- 
ent subjects. It falls to my share, who have 
lived iu the most intimate and uninterrupted 
friendship with him from my youth upwards, 
to transmit to you the verses he wrote on the 
publication of your incomparable poems. It 
is probable they were his last, as they were 
found in his scrutoire, folded up with the form 
of a letter addressed to you, and I imagine, 
were only prevented from being sent by him- 
self by that tuelancuoh dispensation which we 
still bemoan. The verses themselves I will 
not pretend to criticise when writing to a 
gentleman whom I consider as entirely quali- 
fied to judge of their merit. They are the 
only verses he seems to have attempted in the 
Scottish style: and I hesitate not to say, in 
general, that they will bring no dishonour on 
the Scottish muse ; — and allow me to add, that 
if it is your opinion they are not unworthy of 
the author, and will be no discredit to you, it 
is the inclination of Mr Mylne's friends that 
they should be immediately published in some 
periodical work, to give the world a specimen 
of what may be expected from bis performances 
in the poetic line, which, perhaps, will be 
afterwards published for the advantage of his 



I must beg the favour of a letter from you, 
acknowledging the receipt of this, and to be 
allowed to subscribe myself witk> great regard, 
Sir, your most obedient servant, 

P. C 



TO MRS DU-VLOP. 

Eilislcmd, 4'A March, 1 789. 
Here am I, my honoured friend, returned safe 
from the capita). To a man, who has a home, 
however humble or remote — if that home is 
lise mine, the scene of domestic comfort — the 
busile of Edinburgh will soon be a business of 
si^keuing di.-gust. 



should mangle me in the mire, I am tempted 
to exclaim—*' What merits has he had, or 
what demerit have I had, in some state of pre- 
existenee, that he is ushered iDto this state of 
being with the sceptre of rule, and the key of 
riches, in his puny fist, and I am kicked iuto 
the world, the sport of folly, or the victim of 
pride ?" I have read somewhere of a monarch 
(in Spain I think it was,) who was so out of 
humour with the Ptolemean system of astro- 
nomy, that he said, had he been of the Crea- 
tor's council, he could ha\e saved him a great 
deal of labour and absurdity. I will not de- 
fend this blasphemous speech ; but often, as I 
have glided with humble stealth through the 
pomp of Prince's Street, it has suggested itself 
to me, as an improvement on the present hu- 
man figure, that a man, iu proportion to his 
own conceit of his consequence in the world, 
could have pushed out the longitude of his 
common size, as a snail pushes out bis horns, 
or as we draw out a perspective. This trifling 
alteration, not to mention the prodigious saving 
it would be in the tear and wear of the neck 
and limb-sinews of many of his Majesty 's liege 
subjscts in the way of" tossing the head and 
tiptoe strutting, would evidently turn out a 
vast advantage, in enabling us at once to adjust 
the ceremonials in making a bow, or making 
way to a great man, and that too within a 
second of the precise spherical angle of reve- 
rence, or an inch of the particular point cf 
respectful distance, which the important crea- 
ture itself requires : as a measuring- glance at 
its towerin? altitude would determine the affair 
like instinst. 

You are right, madam, in your idea of poor 
Mylne's poem, which he has addressed to me. 
The piece has a good deal of merit, but it has 
one great fault — it is, by far, too long. Be- 
sides, my success has encouraged such a shoal 
of ill-spawned monsters to crawl into public 
notice, under the title of Scottish Poets, that 
the very term of Scottish Poetry borders on 

the burlesque. When I write to Mr C , 

I shall advise him rather to try one of his de- 
cea?ed friend's Enjlish pieces. I am prodigi- 
ously hurried with my own matters, else I 
would have requested a perusal of all Mylne's 
poetic performances ; and would have offered 
bis friends my assistance in either selecting or 
correcting what would be proper for the press. 
What it is that occupies me so much, and 
perhaps a little oppresses my present spirits, 
shall till up a paragraph in some future letter. 
In the meantime allow me to close this epistle 
with a few lines done by a friend of mine . . 
. . . I give you them, that as you have seen 
the original, you may guess whether one or 
two a. orations I have ventured to make in 
them, be any real improvement. 

Like the fair plant that from our touch with- 

Shrink mildly fearful even from applause, 
Be all a mother's fondest hope can dream, 

And all you are, my charming , seem. 

Straight as the fox glove, ere her bells disclose, 
Mild as the maiden-blushing hawthorn blows, 
Fair as the fairest of each lovely kind. 
Your form shall be the image of vocr mind : 
Your manners shall so true your soul express, 
That all shall long to know the woTth they 
guees » 



BURNS.— LETTERS. 



Congenial hearts shall greet with kindre 
Ami even sickling en\ v must appro\e.: 



No. LXXIII. 
TO THE REV. P. CARFRAE. 

REVEREND SIR, 1789. 

1 do not recollect that I have ever felt a seve- 
rer pang of shame, than on looking at the date 
cf jour obliging letter, which accompanied Mr 
Mylue's poem. 

I am much to blame : the honour Mr Mylne 
lias done me, greatly enhanced in its value by 
the endearing, though melancholy circum- 
stance, of its being the last production of his 
muse, deserved a better return. 

I have, as you hint, thought of sen ling a 
copy of the poem to some periodical publica- 
tion ; but, on second thoughts, I am afraid 
that, in the present case, it would be an im- 
proper step. My success, perhaps as much 
accidental as merited, has brought an inunda- 
tion of nonsense under the name of Scottish 
Eoetry. Subscription-bills for Scottish poems 
ave so dunned, and daily do dun the public, 
that the very name is in danger of contempt. 
For these reasons, if publishing any of Mr M. 's 
poems in a magazine, &e. be at all prudent, in 
my opinion it certainly should not be a Scottish 
poem. The profits of the labours of a man 
of genius, are, I hope, as honourable as any 
profits whatever; and Mr Mylne 's relations 
are most justly entitled to that honest harvest, 
which fate has denied himself to reap. But 
let the friends of Mr Mylne's fame (among 
whom I crave the honour of ranking myself), 
always keep in eye his respectability as a man 
and as a poet, and take no measure that, be- 
fore the world knows any thing about him, 
would risk his name and character being 
classed with the fools of the times. 

I have, sir, some experience of publishing ; 
and the way in which I would proceed with 
Mr Mylne's poems, is this :— I would publish, 
in two or three English and Scottish public 
papers, any one of his English poems which 
should, by private judges, be thought the most 
excellent, and mention it at the same time, as 
one of the productions of a Lothian farmer, 
of respectable character, lately deceased, whose 
poems his friends had it in idea to publish, 
soon, by subscription, for the sake of his nu- 
merous family : — not in pity to that family, 
but in justice to what his friends think the 
poetic merits of the deceased ; and to secure, 
in the most effectual manner, to those tender 
connexions, whose right it is, the pecuniary 
reward of those merits. 



* These beautiful lines, we have reason to 
believe, are the production of the lady to whom 
this letter is addressed. 



TO DR MCORE. 

sir, Ei. island, 23d March, 1789. 

The gentleman who will deliver you this is a 
Mr Neilson, a worthy clergyman in my neigh- 
bourhood, and a very particular acquaintance 
of mine. As I have troubled him with this 
packet, I must turn him over to your goodness, 
to recompense him for it in a way in which he 
much needs your assi-tance. and wheie you 
can effectually serve him :-Mr Neilson is" on 
his way for France, to wait on his Grace of 
Queensberry, on some little business of a good 
deal of importance to him, and he wishes for 
your instructions respecting the most eligible 
mode of travelling, &c. for him, when lie has 
crossed the Channel. I should not have 
dared to take this liberty with you, but that I 
am told, by those who have the honour of your 
personal acquaintance, that to be a poor honest 
Scotchman is a letter of recommendation to 
you, and that to have it in your power to 
serve such a character, gives yon much plea- 
sure.* 

The enclosed ode is a compliment to the 

memory of the late Mrs , of . 

You probably knew her personally, an honour 
of which i cannot boast ; but I spent my early 
years in her neighbourhood, and among her 
servants and tenants. I know that she was 
detested with the most heartfelt cordiality. 
However, in the particular part of her conduct 
which roused my poetic wrath, she was much 
less blameable. In January last, en my road 
to Ayrshire, I had put up al Bailie Wigham's 
in-Sanquhar, the only tolerable inn iu the 
place. The frost was keen, and the grim 
evening and howling wind were ushering in a 
night of snow and drift. My horse and 1 were 
both much fatigued with the labours of the 
day, and just as my friend .the Bailie and I 
were bidding defiance to the storm, over a 
smoking bowl, in wheels the funeral pageantry 

of the late great Mrs , and poor 1 am 

forced to brave all the horrors of the tempes- 
tuous night, and jade my horse, my young 
favourite horse, whom I had just christened. 
Pegasus, twelve miles further on, through the 
wildest muirs and hills of Ayrshire, to New 
Cumnock, the next inn. The powers of poesy 
and prose sink under me, when 1 would de- 
scribe what 1 felt. Suffice it to say, that when 
a good lire, at New Cumnock, had so far re- 
covered my frozen sinews, I sat down and 
wrote the inclosed ode. 

I was at Edinburgh lately, and settled 
finally with Mr Creech ; anil I must own, 
that, at last, he has been amicable aud fair 
with me. 



No. LXXV. 
TO MR HILL. 



EUisland, 2d April, 1789. 
excuses, my dear Dibiiopolus 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRAE 7. 



(God forgive me for murdering language !) 
that I bave sat down to write you on this vile ; 
paper. 

It is economy, sir ; it is that cardinal virtue, 
prudence ; so I beg you will sit down, and 
either compose or borrow a panegyric. Ii 
you are going to borrow, apply to 



to compose, or rather to compound, something 
very clever on my remarkable frugality ; that I 
■write to one of my most esteemed friends on 
this wretched paper, which was originally in- 
tended for the venal fist of some drunken ex- 
ciseman, to take dirty notes in a miserable 
vault of an ale-cellar. 

O Frugality ! thou mother of ten thousand 
blessings — thou cook of fat beef and dainty 

greens ! thou manufacturer of warm Shetland 

hose, and comfortable surtouts ! — thou old 
housewife, darning thy decayed stockings with 
thy ancient spectacles on thy aged nose ; — 
lead me, hand me in thy clutching palsied fist, 
up those heights, and through those thickets, 
hitherto inaccessible, and impervious to my 
anxious weary feet: — not those Parnassian 
crags, bleak and barren, where the hungry 
■worshippers of fame are, breathless, clamber- 
ing, hanging between heaven and hell : but 
those glittering cliffs of Potosi, where the all- 
sufiScient, all-powerful deity, Wealth, holds 
bis immediate court of joys and pleasures ; 
■where the sunny exposure oi' plenty, tnd the 
hot walls of profusion, produce those blissful 
fruits of luxury, exotics in this world, and na- 
tives of paradfse! — Thou withered sybil, my 
sage conductress, usher me into the refulgent, 
adoredpreser.ee! — The power, splendid and 
potent as he now is, was once the puling nurs- 
ling of thy faithful care, and tender arms! 
Call me thy son, thy cousin, thy kinsman, or 
favourite, and adjure the god, by the scenes of 
his infant years, no longer to repulse me as a 
stranger, or an alien, but to favour me with 
his peculiar countenance and protection! H 
daily bestows his greatest kindness on the un- 
deserving and the worthless — assure him, that 
I bring ample documents of meritorious de- 
merits ! Pledge yourself for me, that, for the 
glorious cause of Lucre, I will do any thing, 
be any thing— but ;he horse-leech of private 
oppression, or the vulture of public robbery ! 

But to descend from heroics 

I want a Shakspeare ; I want likewise an 
English dictionary — Johnson's, I suppose, is 
best. In these and all my prose commissions, 
the cheapest is always the best for me. There 
is a small debt of honour that I owe Mr Robert 
Cleghorn, in Saugh ton Mills, my worthy 
friend, and your well-wisher. Please give 
him, and urge him to take it, the first time 
you see him, ten shillings worth of any thing 
you have to sell, and place it to my account. 

The library scheme that I mentioned to you 
is already begun, under the direction of Cap- 
tain Riddel. There is another in emulation of 
it going on at C'oseburn, under the auspices of 
Mr Monleith of Closeburn, which will be on 
a greater scale than ours. Capt. R. gave his 
infant society a great many of his old books, 
else I had written you on that subject; but, 
one of these days, I shall trouble you with a J 



commission for " The Monkland I'Tiendlj 
Society" — a copy of The Spectator, Mii-ror, 
and Lounger; Man of Feeling;, Man of the 
World, Guthrie's Gtogi-aphical Grammar, with 
some religious pieces, will likely be our first 
order. 

When T grow richer, I will write to you on 
gilt post, to make amends for this sheet. At 
present, every guinea has a five guinea erraDd 



No. LXXVI. 

TO MRS DUNLOP. 

EUMand, 2d April, J 789. 
I no sooner hit on any poetic plan or fancy, 
but I wish to send it to you ; and if knowing 
aud reading these give half the pleasure to jou, 
that communicating them to you gives to me, 
I am satisfied. 

I have a poetic whim in my head, which I 
at present dedicate, or rather inscribe, to the 
Right Hon. C. J. Fox; but how long that 
fancy mayhold, I cannot say. A few of the 
lines 1 have just rough "sketched, as fol- 



SKETCH. 

How wisdom and folly meet, mix, and unite; 
How virtue and vice b.end their black and their 

white ; 
How genius, th' illustrious father of fiction, 
Confounds rule and law, reconciles contradic- 



g : If these mortals, the 

e not, not I, 1st the critics go whistle. 



should 



mw for a patron, 

glory, 
ice may illustrate 



vhose name and whose 
nd honour my story, 
lors, first of our wits; 



lucky hits : 
With knowledge so vast, and wilh judgment 

No man with "the half of 'em e'er went far 

With passions so potent, and fancies 60 

bright, 
No man with the half of 'em e'er went quits 

right ; 



Good L d, what is man ! for as simple 

he looks 
Do but try to develope his hooks and his 

crooks ; 
With his depths and his shallows, bis good 

and his evil, 
All in ail he's a problem must puzzle tlw 






BURNS. ^-LETTERS. 



On his one ruling passion Sir Pope hugely 

labours, 
That like the old Hebrew walking-switch, 

eats up its neighbours ; 
Mankind are his show-box— a friend, would 

you know him ? 
Pull the string, ruling passion, the picture 

will show hiua. 
What pity, in rearing so beauteous a sys- 



One I 



particular, truth, should have 



Some sort all our qualities each to its 
tribe, 
And think human nature they truly descri 
Have you found this, or t'other ? there s more 

"in the wind, 
As by one drunken fellow his comrades you'll 
lind. 



No two virtues, 
Nor even two d 
Though like as 



whatever relation they claim, 
I as was ever twin brother to bro- 
the one shall imply you've the 



On the 20th current I hope to have the ho- 
nour of assuring you, in person, how sincerely 



No. LXXVII. 

/TO MR CUNNINGHAM. 

MY DEAR SIR, Ellisland, 4th May, 1789. 
Your duty free favour of the 26'h April I 
received two days ago : I will not say I perus- 
ed it with pleasure; that is the cold com- 
pliment of ceremony ; I perused it, sir, with 
delicious satisfaction. — In short, it is such a 
letter, that not you, nor your friend, but the 
legislature, by express proviso in (heir postage 
laws, should frank. A letter informed with 
the soul of friendship is such an honour to 
human nature, that they should order it free 
ingress and egress to and froui their bags and 
mails, as an encouragement and mark of dis- 
tinction to supereminent virtue. 

I have just put the last hand to a little poem 
■which I think will be something to your taste. 
One morning lately as I was out pretty early 
in the fields sowing some grass seedsj 1 heard 
the burst of a shot from a neighbouring plan- 
tation, and presently a poor little wounded 
hare came crippling by me. You will guess 
>ny indignation at the inhuman fellow who 
could shoot a hare at this season, when they 
all of them have young ones. Indeed there 
is something in that business of destroying, 
for our sport, individuals in the animal crea- 
tion that do not injure us materially, which 
I could never reconcile to my ideas of vir- 
tue. 



Inhuman man ! curse on thy barb'rous art, 
And blasted be thy murder-aiming eye, 
May never pity soothe thee with a sigh, 

Nor ever pleasure glad thy cruel heart. 



No more the thickening brakes or verdant 
plains, 
To thee a home, or food, or pastime yield. 

Seek, mangled innocent, some wonted form ; 
That wonted torn), alas ! thy dying bed, 
The sheltering rushes whistling o'er thy 

The cold earth with thy blood-stained bosom 



Perhaps a mother's anguish adds its woe ; 
The playful pair crowd fondly bj thy side ; 
Ah! helpless nurslings, who will now pro 

That life a mother only can bestow ?* 

Oft as by winding Nilh, I musing, wait 
The sober eve, or hail the cheerful dawn, 
I'll miss thee sporting o'er the dewy lawn, 

And curse the ruthless wretch, and mourn thy 
'hapless fate. 

Let me know how you like my poem. I 
am doubtful whether it would not be an im- 
provement to keep out the last stanza but one 
altogether. 

C is a glorious production of the au- 
thor of man. You, he, and the noble Colonel 
of the C F are, to me, 



- have a good mind to make verses on yon 
all, to the tune of " three good fellows ayont the 



No. LXXYIII. 

[The poem in the preceding letter, had also 
been sent by our bard to Dr Gregory for his 
criticism. The following is that gentle- 
man's reply.] 

FROM DR GREGORY. 

DEAR SIR, 'Edinburgh, 2d June, 1789. 
I take the first 1 isure hour I could command, 
to thank you for your letter, and the copy of 
verses inclosed in it- As there is real poetio 
merit, I mean both fancy, and tenderness, and 
"tie happy expressions, in them, I think they 

11 deserve that you should revise them care- 
fully and polish them to the utmost. This I 
ure you can do if you please, for you have 
great command both of expression and of 
rhymes : and you may judge from the two last 
pieces of Mrs Hunter's poetry, that I gave you, 
how much correctness and high polish enhance 
the value of such compositions. As you de« 



Ui 



diamond caei:-:lt liehaey. 



pretty good sub- 



sire it, I shall, with great freedom, give you 
Uiy most rigorcvs criticisms en your verses. I 
■wish you wou':d give me another edition of 
then), much amended, and I will sei.d it to 
Mrs Hunter, who, I am sure, will have much 
pleasure in reading it. Pray, give me like- 
wise for^myself. and her too, a copy (cs much 
amended as voa please) of the Water F .:.-." 
Loch Turit' 

The Wcunded Hai 
ject ; but the measu 
chosen for it is not a good one ; it does not 
Jt:w well ; and the rhyme of the fourth line is 
almost lost by its distance from the first ; and 
the two interposed, close rhymes. If I were 
jou, I would put it into a different stanza 
yet. 

Stanza 1. —The execrations in the first two 
lines are strong or coarse ; but they may 
pass. " Muraer-ajming, " is a tad compound 
epithet, and not very intelligible. •' blood- 
stained, " in stanza iii. line 4, has the same 
fault : BUedins bosom is infinitely better. You 
have accustomed j ourself to such epithets, and 
have no notion how stiff and quaint they ap- 
pear to others, and hew incongruous with 
poetic fancy, and tender sentiments. Suppose 
Pope had written, " Why that blood-stained 
bosom gored, " how would you have liked it 't 
Form is neither a poetic, nor a aignified, nor a 
plain common word: it is a mere sportsman's 
word; unsuitable to pathetic or serious poetry. 

" Mangled" is a coarse word. " Innocent, " 
in this sense, is a nursery worn ; but bclh may 
pass. 

S/cjra 4. — " Who will now provide that 
life a mother only can bestow, " will not do at 
all: it is not grammar — it is not intelligible. 
Do you mean '« provide for that life which the 
mother had bestowed and used to provide 
for?" 

There was a ridiculous slip of the pen, 
•' Feeling" (I suppose) for " Fellow, " in the 
title of your copy of verses ; but even fellow 
would be wrong : it is but a colloquial and 
Tulgar word, unsuitable to your sentiments. 
*' Shot" is improper too. On seeing a person 
(or a sportsman) wound a hare : it is needless 
to add with what weapon ; but if you think 
otherwise, \ou should say, icitr. a 

Let me see you when you come to town, and 
I will show you some more of Mrs Banter's 
poems.* 



* It must be admitted, that this criticism is 
not more distineuished by its gcod sense, than 
by its freedom from ceremony. It is impossi- 
ble not to smile at the manner in which the 
poet may he supposed to have received it. In 
fici it "np;ears, as the sailors say, to have 
thrown him quite a-back. In a letter which he 

wrote soon after, he says, " Dr G is a 

good man, but he crucifies me. "— And again, 

«« I believe in the iron justice cf Dr G ; 

but like the devils, I believe and tremble." 
However, he profited by these eri 
reader will find, by comparing this first edition 
of the poem, with "that published afterwards. 



No. LXXIX. 
TO MR M 'ALLEY, CF DUMBARTON. 

BEAR SIK, 4th June, 17SP. 

Though 1 am not without my fears respecting 
my fate at that ffrand, universal inquest of right 
and wrong, commouly called The Last Day, 
yet I trust there is one sin, which that arch- 
vagabond, Satan, who, I understand, is to be 
king's evidence, cannot throw in my teeth— I 
mean ingratitude. There is a certain pretty 
large quantum of kindness for which I remain, 
at;d, frcm inability, I fear, must remain your 
debtor; but;.: _ the celt, I 

assure you, sir, I shall ever warmly remember 
the obligation. It gives me the sincerest 
pleasure to hear by my old acquaintance, Mr 
Kennedy, that you are, in immortal Allan's 
language, *' Hale and weel, and living ;" and 
that yonr charming family are well, and pro- 
mising to be an amiable and respectable addi- 
tion to the company of performers, whom the 
Great Manager of the Drama of Man is bring- 
ing into action for the succeeding age. 

With respect to my welfare" a subject in 
which you once warmly and effectively inter- 
ested yourself, I am here in my old way, hold- 
ing my plough, marking the growth of my 
corn, or the health of my dairy ; and at times 
sauntering by the delightful" windings of the 
Nitb, on the margin of which I have Luilt my 
humble domicile, praying for seasonable wea- 
ther, or holding cr. intrigue wih the Muses; 
the only gipseys with whom I have now any 
intercourse. As I am entered into the holy 
state of matrimony, I trust my face is turned 
completely Zion-ward ; and as it is a rule with 
. '.vs, to repeat no grievances, I 
hope that the little poetic licences of former 
days, will of course fall undei the- oblivious in- 
fluence of some good-natured statute of celestial 
proscription. In my family devotion, which, 
like a good presbyterian, I occasionally give to 
my household fo'iks, I am extremely* fond cf 
the psalm, ** Let not the errors of my youth, ' ' 
etc and that other, '^Lo, children are God's 
heritage, " &rc. in which last Mrs Burns, who, 
by the bye, has a glorious " wood-note wild" 
at either old song or psalmody, joins me with 
the pathos of Handel's Messiah. 



TO MRS DUXLOP. 

Eilicland, 21s* Jutie, 17S9. 

BEAR MADAil, 
Will you take the effusions, the miserable ef- 
i , fusions of low spirits, just as they flow bum 
i their bitter spring. I know not of any parti- 
; cular cause for this wcrst cf all my foes beset- 
' ; ting me, bat for sometime my soul has been 
: . beclouded with a thickening atmosphere of 
t evil imaginations and gicamy presages. 

Honday Evening. 

I I have just beard give a sermon. 

I He is a man famous for his benevolence, and I 
! revere him ; but from such ideas of my Crea- 
j tor, good Lord deliver me ! Rsii^icn, my 



BURNS.— LETTERS. 



m 



honoured friend, is surely a simple business 
a* it equally concerns the ignorant and lb 
learned, the poor and the rich. That there i 
an incomprehensibly great Being, to whori 
I owe my existence, and that he mint be in t i 
tnately acquainted with the operations an 
progress of the internal machinery, and conse 
quent outward deportment of t 
which he has made ; 
evident propositions, 
eternal uistiuction betwe* 
consequently that I am an 



that from the 
mind, a> well 



iun'-ab:e creature ; 
g nature of the human 
[he evident imperfection, 
in the administration of 
, both iuthe natural and moral worlds, 
ttiere must be a retributive scene of existence 
beyond the grave ; must, I think, be allowed by 
every one who will give himself a moment's re- 
flection. I will go farther, and affirm, that 
froiu the sublimity, excellence, and purity of 
his doctrine ana precepts, unparalleled by 
all the aggregated wisdom and learning of 
ma:.y preceding ages, though, to appearance, 
he himself was the obscurest and most illiter- 
ate of our species: therefore, Je a us Christ was 
from God. 

"Whatever mitigates the woes, or increases 
the happiness of Oihers, this is my criterion of 
goodness; and whatever injures society at 
large, or any individual iu it, this is my mea- 
sure of iniquity. 

What think yon, madam, of my creed ? I 
trust that 1 have said nothing that will lessen 
me in the eye of oue, whose good opinion I 
value almost next to the approbation ot my own 
mind. 



FROM DR MOORE. 

Clijord Street, 10th June, 17S9. 

DEAR SI a, 
I thank you for the different communications 
vou have made me of vour occasional produc- 
.ions in manuscript, all of which have merit, 
and some ot them merit of a different kind 
from what appears in the poems you have pub- 
lished. You ought carefully to preserve all 
vour occasional product. oiu, to correct and im- 
prove them at your leisure: and when you can 
6elect as nianv of these as will make a volume, 
publish it either at Edinburgh or London, by 
eubscripliou : On such an occasion, it may be 
in my power, as it is very much in my inclina- 
tion, to be of service to \ou. 

If I were to offer an opinion, it would be, 
that in \our future productions you should aban- 
don the Scottish stanza and dialect, and adopt 
the measure and. language of modern English 

The stanza which vou use in imitation of 
Christ's Kirk on the Green, with the tiresome 
repe:ition of •* that day," is fatiguing to Eng- 
lish ears, and I should thiuk not very agreeable 
to Scottish. 

All the fine satire and humour of your Holy 
Fair is lost on the English ; yet, without more 
trouble to yourself, you could have conveyed 
the whole to them. The sunie is true of some 
of jour other poems. In your Epistle tc J. 



S , the stanzas from that beginning with 

this line, '-This life, so far's I understand, '' 
to that which ends with, «« Short while it 
grieves," are easv, flowing, gaily philosophi- 
cal, and of Horalian elegance — the language is 
English, with a /etc Scottish wolds, and tome 
cf those so harmonious, as to add to the beauty : 
for what poet would r.ot prefer gloaming \o 
twilight. 

I imagine, that by carefully keeping, and oc- 
casional*} polishing and conecling those veises, 
which the uiuse dictates, jou will, within a 
jearortwo, have another volume as large as 
the hrst, ready for the press; and this, without 
d;\erting you from every proper attention 10 the 
sludv ana practice of Husbandry, in which I 
understand \ou are very learned, and which I 
fancy you will choose to adhere to as a wife, 
while poetry amuses vou from time to time as a 
mistress. The former, like a prudent wife, 
must not show ill humour, although you retain 
a sneaking kindness to this agreeable gipsey, 
and pay her occasional visits, which in no 
manner alienates your heart from your lawful 
spouse, but tends on the contrary to promote 
her interest. 

1 desired Mr Cadell to write to Mr Creech to 
send you a copy of Zeluco. This performance 
has had great success here, but I shall be glad 
to have your opinion cf it, because 1 know you 
are above saving what you do not think. 

I beg you" will tiler my best wishes to my 
very good friend, Mrs Hamilton, who I under- 
stand is your neighbour. If she is as haDpv as 
I wish her, she is happy enough. Make ""my 
compliments also to Mrs Burns, and believe me 
to be, with sincere esteem, 

Dear Sir, yours, &c. 



No. LXXXH. 
FROM MISS J. L . 

sir, Louden-Hvuse, Vlih J„lr, 1789. 

Though I have not the happiness cf being per- 
sonally acquainted with \ou, yet amongst the 
number ot those who have read and admired 
your publications, may 1 be permitted to trou- 
ble you with this. Vou must know, sir, I am 
somewhat in iove w .th the iv.uscs, though I 
cannot boast of any favours they have deigned 
to confer upon me as yet ; my situation in life 
has been very much against me as to that. I 
have spent some years in and about Eccie- 
fechau (where my parents reside), in the station 
of a servaut, and am now come to Loudon- 

House, at present possessed by .Vrs H : 

she is daughter to Mrs Duniop of Duulop, 
whom I uiideistmid you are particularly ac- 
quainted with. As I had the pleasure of per- 
using your poems, I felt a partiality for the 
author, which I should not have experienced 
had you been in a more dignitied station, i wro.e 
a few verses of address to you, which I did not 
then think of ever presenting : but as fortune 
seems to have favoured me in this, h) bringing 
me into a family by whom you are well known 
and much esteemed, and where perhaps I may 
have an opportunity of seeing you ; I shall, in 
hopes of your future friendship, lake the liberty 
to transcribe them. 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRAHY. 



Fair fa' the honest rustic swain, 
The pride o' a' our Scottish plain : 
Thou gi'es us joy to hear thy strain, 

And notes sae sweet t 
Old Ramsay 's shade revived again 

In thee we greet. 

Loved Thalia, that delightfu' muse, 
Seeni'd lang shut up as a recluse ; 
To all she did her aid refuse, 

Since Allan's dav : 
Till Burns arose, then did she choose 

To grace his lay. 

To hear thy sang all ranks desire, 
Sae weel yoc strike the dormant lyre J 
Apollo with poetic fire 

Thy breast does warm ; 
And critics silently admire 

Thy art to charm. 

Caesar and Luath weel can speak, 
'Tis pity e'er their gabs should steek, 
But into huuii.n nature keek, 

And knots unravel : 
To hear their lectures once a-week, 

Nine miles I'd travel. 

Thy dedication to G. H. 

An unco bonnie hamespun speech, 

Wi' winsome glee the heart can teach 

A better lesson, 
Than servile bards, who fawn and fleech 

Like beggar's messin. 

When slighted love becomes your theme, 
And women's faithless vows you blame ; 
Y\ ith so much pathos you exclaim, 

In your lament ; 
But glanced by the most frigid dame, 

She would relent. 

The daisy too ye sing wi' skill ; 
And weel ve praise the whiskv eill : 
In vain I blunt my feckless quill, 

While echo sounds from ilka hill, 
To Burns 's praise. 

Did Addison or Pope but hear, 

Or Sam, that critic most severe, 

A plougbboy sing with throat sae clear 

They in a rage 
Their works would a : in pieces tear, 

And curse your page. 

Sure Milton's eloquence were faint, 
The beauties of your verse to paint, 
My rude unpollsh'd strokes but taint 

Their brilliancy ; 
Th' attempt would doubtless vex a saint, 

And weel may me. 

The task 111 drop with heart sincere, 
To heaven present my humble prayer, 
That all the blessings mortals share, 

May be by turns, 
Dispensed by an indulgent care 

To Robert Burns. 

Sir, I hope you will pardon my boldness in 
this ; my hand trembles while I write to you, 
conscious of my unworthiness of what I would 
Biost earnestly solicit, viz. yonr favour and 



friendship : yet hoping yon will show yourself 
possessed of as much generosity and good- 
nature as will prevent your exposing what 
may justly be found liable to censure in this 
measure, I shall take the liberty to subscribe 
myself, 

Sir, 
Your most obedient humble servant, 



P. S.— If you would condescend to honour 
ne with a few lines from your hand, I would 
ake it as a particular favour, and direct to me 
t Loudon-House near Gnlslock. 



No. LXXXIIL 

FROM MR 

London, 5!h August, 17S9. 

MV DEAR SIR, 

Excuse me when I say, that the uncommon 
abilities which you possess, must render your 
correspondence very acceptable to anv onel I 
can assure you, I am particularly proud of your 
partiality, and shall endeavour, by every "me- 
thod in my power, to merit a continuance of 
jour politeness. 

When yon can spare a few moments T should 
be prtud of a letter from ycu, directed for me, 
Gerrard Street, Soho. 

I cannot express my happiness sufficiently at 
the instance of your attachment to my iate' in- 
estimable friend, Bob Fergusson, who was par- 
ticularly intimate with myself and relations.* 
While I recollect with pleasure his extraordi- 
nary talents and many amiable qualities, it 
afi'ords me the greatest consolation, that I am 
honoured with the correspondence of his suc- 
cessor in national simplicity and genius. That 
Mr Burns has refined in the art of poetry, must 
readily be admitted ; but notwithstanding many 
favourable representations, I am yet (o learn 
that he inherits his convivial powers. 

There was such a richness of conversation, 
such a plenitude of fancy and attraction in 
him, that when I call the happy period of our 
intercourse to my memory, I feel myself in a 
state cf deiiriuml I was then younger than 
him by eight or ten years ; but his manner was 
so felicitous, that he enraptured every person 
around him, and infused into the hearts of the 
young and old, the spirit and animation which 
operated on his own mind. 

I am, dear Sir, yours, ke. 



No. LXXXIY. 

TO MR , 

IM ANSWER TO THE E0BEGOING. 



i this particular sea- 



' The erect'on of a monument to hii 






EL'RXS LETTERS. 



125 



•on, and the indolence of a poet at all times 
and seasons, will, 1 hope, plead my excuse for 
neglecting so long to answer jour obliging let- 
ter of the fifth of August. 

That you have done well in quitting your 
laborious concern in . . . . I do not 
doubt ; the weighty reasons you mention were, 
I hope, very, and deservedly indeed, weighty- 
ones, and your health is a matter of the last 
importance; but whether the remaining pro- 
prietors of the paper have also done well, is 
what I much doubt. The . . . . , so far 
as I was a reader, exhibited such a brilliancy 
of point, such an elegance of paragraph, and 
such a variety of intelligence, ihat I can hard- 
ly conceive it possible to continue a daily paper 
in the same degree of excellence ; but if there 
was a man who had abilities equal to the 
task, that man's assistance the proprietors 
hare lost. 

When I received your letter I was transcrib- 
ing for , my letter to the Magistrates 

of the Canorgate, Edinburgh, begging their 
permission to place a tomb-stone over poor 
Fergusson, and their edict in consequence of 
uiy petition ; but now I shall send them to 

Poor Fc-rgusson ' If 

there be a life beyond the grave, which 1 trust 
there is; and if there be a good God presiding 
over all nature, which I am sure there is ; thou 
art now enjoying existence in a glorious world, 
where worth of the heart alone is distinction 
in the man ; where riches, deprived of all their 
pleasure-purchasing powers, return to their 
native sordid matter : where titles and honours 
are the disregarded reveries of aa idle dream : 
and where that heavy virtue, which is the ne- 
gative consequence of steady dulness, and 
those thoughtless, though often destructive 
follies, which are the unavoidable aberrations 
of frail human nature, will be thrown into 
equal oblivion as if they had never been ! 

Adieu, my dear Sir : so soon as your present 
views and schemes are concentred in an aim, 
I shall be glad to hear from you : as your 
welfare aud happiness is by no means a subject 



indifferent to 



Yours, &c. 



No. LXXXV. 
IT MRS DUNLOP. 

Eilisland, 6lh September, 17S9. 

DBAR MADAM, 
I have mentioned in my last, my appointment 
to the excise, and the birth of little Frank ; 
who, by the bye, I trust will be no discredit 
to the honourable name of Wallace, as he has 
a fine manly countenance, and a figure that 
might do credit to a little fellow two months 
older ; aud likewise an excellent good temper, 
though when he pleases he has a pipe, only not 
quite so loud as the horn that his immortal 
namesake blew as a signal to take out the pin 
of Stirling bridge. 

I had some time ago an epistle, part poetic, 
and part prosaic, from your poetess, Mrs J. 
L 1 a very ingenious, but modest com. 



position. I should have written her as she re 
quested, but for the hurry of this new business. 
1 have heard of her and her compositions in 
this country : and I am happy to add, always 
to the honour of her character. The fact is, 
I know not well how to write to her ; I should 
sit down to a sheet of paper that I knew not 
how to stain. I am no daub at fine drawn 
letter-writing j and except when prompted by 
friendship or gratitude, or, which happens ex- 
tremely rarely, inspired by the Muse (I know 
not her name) that presides over epistolary 
writing, I sit down, when necessitated to 
write, aa I would sit down to beat hemp. 

Some parts of your letter of the 20th August, 
struck me with melancholy concern for the 
state of your mind at present. 

Would 1 could write you a letter of comfort ! 
I would sit down to it with as much pleasure, 
as I would to write an epic poem of my own 
composition, that should equal the Iliad. Re- 
ligion, my dear friend, is the true comfort I 
A strong persuasion in a future state of exis- 
tence; a proposition so obviously probable, 
that, setting revelation aside, every nation and 
people, so far as investigation has reached, for 

mode or other, firmly believed it. In vain 
would we reason and pretend to doubt. I 
have myself done so to a very daring pitch ; 
but when I reflected, that 1 was opposing the 
most ardent wishes, and the most darling hopes 
of good men, and flying in the face of all hu- 
man belief, in all ages, 1 was shocked at my 

I know not whether I have ever sent you 
the following lines, or if you have ever geea 
them ; bat it is one of my favourite quotations, 
which I keep constantly by me in my progress 
through life, ia the language of the book of 
Job, 

" Against the day of battle and of war, " — 

spoken of religion. 

•« 'Tis this, my friend, that streaks our mom- 

: Tis this that gilds the horror of our night, 
When wealth forsakes us, and when friends 

are few : 
When friends are faithless, or when foes pur- 

'Tis this that wards the blow, or stills the 

Dis itBi affliction, or repels his dart : 
Within the breast bids purest raptures rise, 
Bids smiling conscience spread her cloudless 



I have beei. very busy with Zeluco. Tha 
Doctor is so obliging as to request my opinion 
of it ; and I have been revolving in my mind 
some kind of criticisms on novel writing, but 
it is a depth beyond my research. I shall 
however digest my thoughts on the subject as 
well as 1 can. Zeluco is a most sterling per- 
formance. 

Farewell: A Dieu, Is Ion Dieu, je cowf 
commevde 1 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



No. LXXXVL 

jTROM DR BLACKLOCK. 

Edinburgh, 2itk Aega t, IT: 9. 
Dear Burns, thou brother of my heart, 
Both for thr virtues and thv art : 
If art it ma"; be call 'd in thee, 
"Which nature's bounty, large and free, 
With pleasure on thy breast difiuses, 
And warms thy soul with all the Muses. 
Whether to laugh with easy grace, 
Tit; numbers move the sage's face, 
Or bid the softer passions rise, 
And ruthless souis with grief surprise, 
'Tis Nature's voice distinctly felt, 
Through thee her organ, thus to melt. 

Most anxiously I wish to know, 
"With thee of lute how matters go ; 
How keeps thy much-loved Jean her health 
What promises thy farm of wealth ? 
"Whether the Muse persists to smile, 
And all thy anxious cares beguile ? 
Wh-ther bright fane; keeps alive ? 
And how thy darling infants thrive ? 

For me, with grief and sickness speut, 
Since I my journey homeward bent, 
Spirits depress "d uo more I mourn, 
But vigour, life, and health return. 
No more to gloomy thoughts a prey, 
I sleep all night, and live all day : 
By turns my book and friend enjoy, 
And thus my circling hours employ ; 
Happy vfhile yet these hours remain, 
If Burns could join the cheerful train, 
With wonted zeai, sincere and fervent, 
Saiute ouce mere his humble servant, 

THO. BLACKLOCK. 



No. LXXXVIL 

TO DR BLACKLOCK. 

Ellisland, 21st October, 1789. 
Wow, but your letter made me vaunti^I 
And are ye hale, and weel, and cantit ? 
1 kenn'd'it still, your wee bit jauntie 

Wad bring ye to: 

Lord send you aye as weei's I want ye, 

And then ye'Udo. 

The ill-thief blaw the Heron south ! 
And never drink be near his drouth ! 
He tauld mysel by word o' mouth, 

He'd tak my letter; 
I lippeu'd to the chiel in trojth, 

And bade nae better. 



And tired o* sauls to waste his lear on, 

E'en tried the body.* 

But what d.'ye think, my trusty fier, ■§ 

I'm turn'd a ganger — Peace be here ! 
Parnassian queens, I fear, I fear, 

Ye '11 now disdain me, 
And then my fifty pounds a-year 

Will "little gain me. 

Ye elaiket, gleesome, dainty damies, 
Wba by Castalia's wimplin streamies, 
Lowp, sing, and lave your pretty iimbies, 

That Strang necessity supreme is 

'Mang sons o' men. 

I hae a wife and twa wee laddies. 

They maun hae brose and brats o' duddies s 

Ye ken ycursel my heart right proud is, 

I needna vaunt, 
But I'll sead besoms — thraw saugh woodies, 

Before they want. 

Lord help me through this warld o' care ! 
I'm weary sick o*t late and air ! 
Not but 1 hae a richer share 

Than reony ithers ; 
Eut why should ae man better fare, 

And a' men brithers I 

Come, Firm Resolve, tak thou the van, 
Thou stalk o' carl-hemp in man ! 
And let us mind, faint heart ne'er vtan 

A lady fair : 
Wba does the utmost that he can, 

Will whyles do moir. 

But to conclude my silly rhyme, 

(I'm scant o' verse, and scant o' time,) 

To make a happy fireside clime 



My compliments to sister Beckie ; 
And eke the same to honest Lucky ; — 
I wat she is a daiutie chuckie, 

As e'er tread clay ! 
And gratefully my gude auld coekie, 

I'm yours for aye. 
ROBERT BURNS. 



No. LXXXVIII. 

TO R. GRAHAM, ESQ. OF FTNTRY. 

5TR, 9t/t December, 17S9. 

ave a good while had a wish to trouble yoa 
h a letter, and had certainly done it long ere 
t — but for a humiliating something that 
)ws cold water on the resolution, as if ona 
should say, •* You have found Mr Graham a 
very powerful and kind friend indeed, and that 



But aiblins honest Master Heron, 
Had at the time some dainty fair one, 
To ware his theologic care on. 

And ho!v study ; 



* Mr Heron, author of the History of Scot- 
land, lately published ; and among various 
othrr works, of a respectable life of ou poet 
himself. 



BURNS — LETTERS. 



interest he is so kindly taking in your con- 
cerns, ycu ought by every thing in your power 
to keep alive and cherish." Now though, 
since God has thought proper to make one 
powerful and another helpless, the connexion 
of obliger and obliged is all fair ; and though 
mv being under your patronage is to me highly 
honourable, yet, sir, allow me to flatter myself, 
that, as a poet and an honest man, you first 
interested yourself in my welfare, and princi- 
pally as such still, you permit me to approach 

I have found the excise business go on a 
great deal smoother with ice than 1 expected ; 
owing a eood deal to the generous friendship 
of Mr Mitchell, my collector, and the kind 
assistance of Mr Findlater, my supervisor. I 
dare to be honest, and I fear no labour. Nor 
do I find my hurried life greatly inimical to 
my correspondence with the Muses. Their 
visits to me, indeed, and I believe to most of 
their acquaintance, like the visits of good 
angels, are short and far between ; but I meet 
them now and then as I jog through the hills 
of Nithsdale, just as I used to do on the banks 
of Ayr. I take the liberty to inclose you a 
few bagatelles, all of them the productions of 
my leisure thoughts in my excise rides. 

If you know or have ever seen Captain 
Grose, the antiquarian, you will enter into any 
humour that is in the verses on him. Perhaps 
you have seen them before, as I sent them to 
a London Newspaper. Though I dare say 
you have none of the solemn-league-and-cove- 
nant fire, which shone so conspicuous in Lord 
George Gordon, and the Kilmarnock weavers, 
yet I think you must have heard cf Dr M'Uiii, 
one of the clergymen of Ayr, and his heretical 
hook. God help him, poor man ! Though he 
i = one of the worthiest, as well as one of the 
ablest of the whole priesthood of the Kirk of 
Scotland, in every sense o? that ambiguous 
term, yet the poor Doctor and his numerous 
family are in imminent danger of being thrown 
out to the mercy of the winter-winds. The 
inclosed ballad on that business is, I confess, 
too local, but I laughed myself at some con- 
ceits in it, though I am convinced in my con- 
science, that there are a good many heavy 

The election ballad, as you will see, alludes 
to the present canvass in our string of 
boroughs. I do not believe there will be 
such a hard run match in the whole general 
election. * 

I am too little a man to have any political 
attachments : I am deeply indebted to, and 
have the warmest veneration for, individuals 
of both parties : but a man who has it in his 
power to be the father of a country, and who 

is a character that one cannot 

speak of with patience. 

Sir J. J. does "what man can do," but 
yet I doubt his fate. 



* This allrdes to the contest for the bo- 
rough of Dumfries, between the Duke of 
Queensberry's interest and that of Sir James 
Johnstone. 



No. LXXXIX. 

TO MRS DUNLOP. 

EMisland, ISih December, 1789. 
Many thanks, dear madam, for your sheetful 
of rhymes. Though at present I am below 
the veriest prose, yet from you every thing 
pleases. I am groaning under the miseries of 
a diseased nervous system ; a system, the state 
cf which is mo-.t conducive to our happiness — 
or the most productive of our misery. For 
now near three weeks I have been so ill with 
a nervous head-ache, that I have been obliged 
to give up, for a time, my excise books, being 
scarce able to lift my head, much less to ride 
once a- week over ten muir parishes. What is 
Man ! ^fo-day, in the luxuriance of health, 
exulting in the enjoyment of existence; in a 
few days, perhaps in a few hours, loaded 
with conscious painful being, counting the 
tardy pace of the lingering moments by the 
repercussions of auguish, and refusing or de- 
nied a comforter. Day follows night, and 
night conies after day, only to curse him with 
life which gives him no pleasure; and yet the 
awful, dark termination of that life, is a some- 
thing at which he recoils. 

" Tell. us, ye dead ; will none of you in pity 

Disclose the secret 

What 'lis you arc, end we must shortly be ' 



A little time will make us learn 'd as you are. 

Can it be possible, that when I resign this 
frail, feverish being, I shall still find myself in 
conscious existence! When the last gasp of 
agony has announced tiiat I am no more ro 
those that knew me, and the few who loved 
me: when the cold, stiffened, unconscious, 
ghastly corse is resigned into the earth, to ba 
the prey of unsightly reptiles, and to become 
in time a troddeu clod, shall I yet be warm in 
life, seeing and seen, enjoying and enjoyed ? 
Ye venerable sages, and holy rlamens, is "there 
probability in your conjectures, truth in your 
stories of another world beyond death : or are 
they all alike, baseless visions, and fabricated 
fables ? If there is another life, it must be 
only for the just, the benevolent, the amiable, 
and the humane ; what a flattering idea, then, 
is the world to come ! Would to God I as 
firmly believed it, as I ardently wish it! There 
I should meet an aged parent, now at rest 
from the many buffettings of an evil world, 
against which he so long and so bravely strug- 
gled. There should I meet the friend, the 
disinterested friend of my early life ; the man 
who rejoiced to see me, because he loved me 

and could serve -ne. Muir ! thy weaknesses 

were the abberrations of human nature, but 
thy heart glowed with every thing generous, 
manly, and noble ; and if ever emanation from 
the All-good Being animated a human form, it 
was thine !_ There should I with speechless 
agony of rapture, again recognize my lost, my 

with truth, honour, constancy, and love. 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY 



Jesus Christ, thou ainiablest of characl< 
I trust thou art no impostor, and that thy 
velation of blissful scenes of existence beyond 



palmed on credulous mankind. I trust th 
thee, "shall all the families of the earth be 
blessed, " by being yet connected together i 
better world, where every tie that bound hi 
to heart, in this state of existence, shall 
far beyond our present conceptions, more 
endearing. 

I am a good deal inclined to think with 
those who maintain that what are called ner- 
/ous affections are in fact diseases of the 
mind. I cannot reason, I cannot thjuk ; and 
but to you I would not venture to write any 
thing above an order to a cobbler. You have 
felt too much of the ills of life not to sympa- 
thize with a diseased wretch, who is impaired 
in more than half of any faculties he possessed. 
Your goodness will excuse this distracted 
scrawl, which the writer dare scarcely read, 
and which he would throw into the lire, were 
he able to write any thing Letter, or indeed any 
thing- at all. 

Kumour told me something of a son of 
yours who has returned from the East or 
West Indies. If you have gotten news of 
James or Anthony, it was cruel in you not to 
let me know ; as I promise you, on the since- 
rity of a man, who is weary of one world and 
anxious about another, that scarce any thing 
could give me so much pleasure as to hear of 
any good thing befalling my honoured friend. 

if you have a minute's leisure, take up your 
pen in pity to le pauvve miserable 



TO SIR JOHN SINCLAIR. 



The following circumstance has, I believe, 
been omitted in the statistical account, trans- 
mitted to you, of the parish of Dunscore, in 
Nitbsdale. I beg leave to send it to yon, be- 
cause it is new and may be useful. How far 
it is deserving of a place in your patriotic pub- 
lication, jou are the best judge. 

To store the minds of the lower classes 
•with useful knowledge, is certainly of very 
great importance, both to them as individuals, 
and to society at large. Giving them a turn 
for reading and reiiection, is giving them a 
source of innocent and laudable amusement ; 
and besides raises them to a more diguilied 
degree in the scale of rationality. Impressed 
with this idea, a gentleman in this parish, 
Robert Riddel, Esq. of Glenriddel, set on foot 
n species of circulating library, oa a plan so 
simple as to be practicable in any corner of the 
country ; and so useful, as to deserve the notice 
of every country gentleman, who thinks the 
improvement of that part- of his own species, 
whoai chaaoe has thrown into the humble 



walks of the peasant and the artisan, a matter 
worthy of his attention. 

Mr Riddel got a number of his own tenants, 
and farming neighbours, to form themselves 
into a society for the purpose of having a library 
among themselves. 'I hey entered into a legal 
engagement to abide by it for three years ; 
with a saving clause or two, incase of removal 
to a distance, or of death. Each member, at 
his entry, paid five shillings, and at each of 
their meetings, which were held every fourth 
Saturday, sixpence more. With their eutry^ 
money, and the credit which they took -on the 
faith of their future funds, they laid in a tole- 
rable stock of books at the commencement. 
What authors they were to purchase, was 
always decided by the majority. At every 
meeting, all the books, under certain tines and 
forfeitures, by way of penalty, were to be pro- 
duced ; and the members had their choice ot 
the volumes in rotation. He whose name 
stood, for that night, first on the list, had hia 
choice of what volume he pleased in the whole 
collection ; the second had his choice after the 
first ; the third, after the second, and so on to 
the last. At next meetirg, he who had been 
first on the list at the preceding meeting, was 
last at this ; he who had been second was first j 
and so on through the whole three years. At 
the expiration of the engagement, the books 
were sold by auction, but only among the 
members themselves s and each man had his 
share of the common slock, in money or in 
books, as he chose to be a purchaser or not. 

At the breaking up of this little society, 
which was formed under Mr Riddel's patron- 
age, what with benefactions of books from 
h:m, and what with their own purchases, they 
had collected together upwards of one hundred 
and fifty volumes. It will easily, be guessed, 
that a good deal of trash would be bought. 
Among the books, however, of this little 
library, were Blair's Sermons, Robertson's His- 
tory of Scotland, Hume 's History of the Stuarts, 
the Spectator, Idler, Adventurer, Mirror, 
Lounger, Observer, Men of Feeling, Man of the 
World, Chrysal, Don Quixote, Joseph An-* 
'rtivs, <$-c. A peasant who can read and enjoy 
uch Looks, is certainly a much superior being 
to his neighbour, who perhaps stalks beside 
his team, very little removed, except in shape, 
from the brute be drives. - 

Wishing your patriotic exertions their st> 
much merited success, 1 am, 



* The above is extracted from the third vo- 
lame of Sir John Sinclair's Statistics, p. 598. 
It was inclosed to Sir John by Mr Riudel 
himself in the following letter, also printed 



' SIR JOHN, 

• I inclose you a letter, written by Mr Burns, 
as an addition to the account of Dnnecore par- 
ish. It contains an account of a small library 
which he was so good, (at my desire) as to 6et 
on foot, in the barony of Monkland, or Friar's 
Carse, in this parish. As its utility has been 
felt, particularly among the fWinger class of 



No. XCT. 
TO MR GILBERT BURNS. 
Eilisland, 11 iJi January, IT! 






whether doing, snfieilng, or fo»besrinj 

uay do miracles by persevering. 



Ill fight 



DEAR BROTHER, 
I mean to take advantage of the frank, though 
I have not in my present frame of mind much 
uppetite for exertion in writing. My nerves 

„{.£ ; n a state. I feel that horrid 

hypochondria pervading every atom of both 
fcodv and soul. This farm has undoii 
enjoyment of myself. It : - " 
rli hands. But let it go 
it out and be off with it. 

We have gotten a set of very decent playei 
here just now. I have seen them an evening 
or two. David Campbell, in Ayr, v%r 
me bv the manager cf tue company, 
Sutherland, who is a man of apparent worth. 
On New-y ear-nay evening I gave hiir - 1 
following prologue, which he spouted 
audience with applause. 

No song nor dance I bring from yon great 

That queens 



Last, though not least, in love, ye youthful 

Angelic form?, high Heav.n's peculiar care! 
To you old Bald p-.te smooths his wrinkled 

And huail ly begs you'il mind the important-* 



To o 






r leave, 



With gratefu 
And howsoe'ei 



pride we - 



e I was clear of II is 



o'er our taste -the more's the 



Though, by the bye, abroad why will you 

" roam ? 
Good sense and teste are natives here at home : 
But not for panegyric I appear, 
I come to wish you ail a good new ye-r ! 
Old Father Time depute,, me here before ye, 
Not for to preach, but tell his simple story : 
The sage grave ancient cough 'd, and bade me 

•• You're one year older this important day," 
If wiser too— he hinted some suggestion. 

But 'twou'd be rude, y.u k..o\v, to ask the 

question ; 
And with a would-be-roguish leer and wink, 
He bade me on you press this one word — 

•" THINK ." 

Ye sprightly youths, quite flush with hope 

V.T.o ihi k to storm the world by dint of merit, 
To you the dotard has a deal to say, 
Jn hi- slv, dr\, sententious, proverb way! 
He bids" you" mind, amid your thoughtless 

rattle, 
That the rrst blow is ever half the battle ; 
That though some by the skirt may try to 

Yet by the forelock is the hold to catch him, 



people, 1 think, that if a similar plan were 
established, in the different parishes of Scot- 
land, it would tend greatly to the spefdy im- 
provement of the tenantry, trades people, and 
•work people. Mr Burns was so good as to 
take the whole charge of this small concern. 
He was treasurer, librarian, and censor to this 
li« tie society, who will long have a grntet'ul 
sense of his pu':..ic spirit ai-.dexeriious for their 
improvement and information, 

' I have tbe honour to be. Sir John, 
' i'ours most sincerely, 

'ROBERT RIDDEL.' 
To Sir John Sinclair, 
tfUlbster, Ba>t. 



No. XCIT. 

to mrs duxlop. 

B'lisland, 251A January, 1T50 
It lias been owing to anremittisg hurrv 
business that I have not written !oyou, mass 
lot g --re now. My health is greatly better, i 
I no a begin once 
and er.joymeut v 

Many thanks, my much esteemed friend, 
for your kind Setters": but why will yen u.<,*o 
me run the risk of being contemptible and 
mercenary in my own eyes! When 1 pique 
myself on my independent spirit, 1 hepe it is 
nether poetic licence, nor poetic rant ; and I 
am so flattered with the honour you bare dor.e 
me, in making me your compeer in friendship 
r.nd liiendiy correspondence, that 1 cannot. 
wil! nit pain, and a degree of morlirJcation, D8 
the real "inequality between our 

Most sincerely do I rejoice with you, de-.r 
madam, in tbe'good news of Anthony. Not 
quly your anxiety about his fate, but my own 
esteem for such a ncble, warm-hearted, raanlv 
young fellow, in the little I hado. his acquajiu- 
ance, has interested me deeply in his fortunes. 

Falconer, the unfortunate author of the 
Shipwreck, which you so much admire, is no 
mere. After weathering the dreadful c tas- 
trcphe he so feelingly describes in his ii.'»:-j. 
and after weathering many hard gales ot iur- 
uine, he went to the bottom with the Aurora 
frigate! I forget what part of Scotland had 
the honour of giving him birth, but i.e -.'.as 
the son of obscurity and misfortune.* He 



* Falconer was in early life a seal 

use a word of Shakspeare.'on beard a n: 

war. in w ..led the 

the satire 

>. il'cn pin 

C-iir.pbeil t^ok him as Lis se 

r.iul delighted in giving him in-truction 

when Falconer afterwards acquired cd< 



130 

was one of those daiing adventurous spirits, 
which Scotland, Leyond any other country, is 
remarkable for producing." Little does* the 
fond mother think, as she hangs delighted over 
the sweet little leech at her bosom, where the 
poor fellow may hereafter wander, and what 
may be his fate. I remember a stanza in an 
old Scottish ballad, which, notwithstanding 
its rude simplicity, speaks feelingly to the 
heart : — 

" Little did my mother think, 

That day she cradled me, 
What land I was to travel in, 

Or what death I should die. " 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



Old Scottish songs art 
; study and pursuit of 
i that subject, allow 
ii!zas of another old s 
a sure will please you. 



an I a 



to give vou 
e ballad, whi 

The catastrophe of 
me piece is a poor ruined female, lamenting 
her fate. She concludes with this pathetic 



" that my father had ne'er on me smiled ; 
O that my mother had ne'er to me sung ! 

that my cradle had never been rock'd ; 
But that I had died when I was young ! 

" O that the grave it were my bed ; 

My blankets were mv winding sheet ; 

The'clocks and the worms m\ bedfellows a' ; 

And O sae sound as I shoJld sleep !" 

1 do not remember in all my reading to hare 
met with any thing more truly the language of 
misery, than the exclamation in the last line. 
Misery is like love ; to speak its language 
truly, the author must have felt it. 

I am every day expecting the doctor to give 
your little god-son * the small-pox. They""are 
rifi in the country, and I tremble for his fate. 
By the way, I cannot help congratulating you 
on his looks and spirit. Every person who 
sees him, acknowledges nim to be the finest, 
handsomest child he has ever seen. I am 
myself delighted with the manly swell of his 
little ches' and a certain miniature dignity in 



m as his scholar. The editor had 
this infWtta'ion from a surgeon of a man of 
war, in 177 7, who knew both Campbell and 
Falconer, and who himself prished soon after 
by shipwreck, on the coast of America. 

Though the death of Falconer happened so 
lately as" 1770 or 1771, yet in the b ography 
prefixed by Dr Anderson to his w. rks, in the 
complete edition of the Poets of Great Britain, 
it is said, "Of the familv, 'birth-place, and 
education of William Falconer, there are no 
memorials. " On the authority already given, 
it may be mentioned, that he was a native of 
one of the towns on the coast of Fife, and that 
his parents, who had suffered some misfor- 
tunes, removed to one of the sea-ports of Eng- 
land, where they both died, soon after, of an 
epidemic fever, leaving poor Falconer, then 
a boy, forlorn and destitute. In consequence 
of which he entered on board a man of war. 
These last circumstances are however less 
ssrtain. 

* The bard's second son, Francis. 



the carriage of his head, and glance of his fiae 
black eye, which promise the undaunted gal- 
lantry of an independent mind. 

I lhoueht to have sent you some rhymes, but 
time forbids. I promiseyou poetry until you 
are tired of it, next time I have the honour of 
assuring you how truly I am, &c. 



No. XCIII. 
FROM MR CUNNINGHAM 

2Sih January, 1790. 

jme instances it is reckoned unpardonable 
to quote any one's own words; but the value 
I have for your friendship, nothing can mote 
truly, or more elegantly express, thau 

" Time but the impression stronger makes, 



Having written to you twice without having 
heard from you, I am apt to think my letters 
have miscarried. My conjecture is only framed 
upon the chapter of accidents turning up 
against me, as it too often does, in the trivial, 
and I may with truth add, the more important 
ailairs of life: but I shall continue occasionally 
to inform you what is going on among the 
circle of your friends in these parts. Iu these 
days of merriment, I have frequently heard 

your name proclaimed at the jovial board 

under the roof of our hospitable friend at 
Steuhouse Mills, there were no 

" Lingering moments number'd with care. " 



I saw y 


nir Address to the Keic-year in the 


Fumfries 


Journal. Of ycur productions I 


shall say r 


othing, but my acquaintances allege 


that whei 


your name is mentioned, which 


every man 


of celebrity must know often hap- 



pens, I am the champion, the Mendoza a^ 
all snarling critics, and narrow-minded rep- 
tiles, of whom a. few on this planet do craid. 

With best compliments to your wife, and her 
black- eyed sister, I remain, yours, &rc. 



No. XCIV. 

TO MR CUNNINGHAM. 

Ellisland, 13^ February, 17C0. 
I beg your pardon, my dear and much valued 
frieiid," for writing to" \ou on this very un- 
fashionable, unsightly sheet — 

" My poverty but not my will consents. " 

Put to make amends, since of modish 



sb post 
ed half 



my plebeian foolscap pages, like the widow of 
a man of fashion, whom that unpoiite scoun- 
drel, Necessity, has driven from Burgundy 
and Piae-apple", to a dish of Bohea, with tha 



BURNS — I 

scandal-bearing help-mate of a village priest ; 
or a glass of whisky-toddy, with the ruby- 
nosed yoke-fellow of a foot-p*duing exciseman 
— I make a vow to inclose this sheetful of 
epistolary fragments in that my only scrap of 
gilt paper. 

1 am indeed your unworthy debtor for three 
friendly letters. I ought to have written to 
you long ere now, but it is a literal fact, I have 
scarcely a spare moment. It is not that I 
lOtfi not write to you ; Miss Burnet is not more 
dear to her guardian angel, nor his grace ihe 

Duke of to the powers of , 

Hun my friend Cunningham to me. It is not 
that I cannot write to \ou: should you doubt 
it, take the following fragment which was in- 
tended for you some time ago, and be convinced 
that I can anlithesize sentiment, and circumro- 
lute periods, as well as any coiuer of phrase in 
the regions of philology. 

December, 1789. 

MY DSAB CUNNINGHAM, 
"Where are you ? And what are you doing ? 
Can you be that son of levity, who takes up a 
friendship as he takes Up a fashion ; or are 
you, like' some other of the worthiest fellows 
in the world, the victim of indolence, ladeD 
with fetters of ever-increasing weight ? 

"What strange beings we are * Since we have 
a portion of conscious existence, equally capa- 
ble of enjoying pleasure, happiness, and rap- 
ture, or of suffeiir.g pain, wretchedness, and 
misery, it is surely worthy of an inquiry, 
whether there be not such a thing as a science 
of life; whether method, economy, and fertil- 
ity of expedients be not applicable to enjoyment; 
aud whether there be not a want of dexterity in 
pleasure, which renders our litle scantling of 
happiness still less ; and a piofuseness, an in- 
toxication in bliss which leads to satiety, dis- 
gust, and self-abhorrence. There is not a 
doubt but that health, talents, character, 
decent competency, respectable friends, are 
real substantial blessings ; and yet do we not 
daily see those who enjoy many or all of these 
gooa things, contrive, notwithstanding, to be 
as unhappy as others to whose lot few of them 
have fallen. I believe one great source of this 
mistake or misconduct is owing to a certain 
stimulus, with us called ambition, which goads 
us up the hill of life, not as we ascend oilier 
eminences, for the laudable curiosity of viewing 
an extended landscape, but rather for the dis- 
honest pride of looking down on others of our 
fellow-creatures, seemingly diminutive, in 
humble stations, &c. &c. 



Tuesday, 16 th. 

Luckily for me, I was prevented from the dis. 
cussion of the knotty point at which I had just 
made a full stop- All my fears and cares are 
of this world : if there is another, an honest 
man has nothing to tear from it. I hate a man 
that wishes to be a Deist, but 1 fear, every fair, 
unprejudiced inquirer must in some degree be a 
sceptic. It is not that there are any very stag- 
ger. ng arguments against the immortality of 
man; but" like electricity, phlogiston, &c. the 
subject is so involved in darkness, that we want 
data to go upon. One thing frightens me 
much; that we are to live forever, seems too 
good tiews to be true. That we are to enter 
into a new scene of existence, where, exempt 
from want and pain, we shall enjoy ourselves 
and our friends without satiety or separation — 
how much should I be indebted to any one 
who could fully assure me that this was cer- 



My time is once more expired. I will write 
to Mr Cleghorn soon. God bless him and ail 
his concerns ! And may all the powers that 
preside over conviviality and friendship, be 
present with all their kindest influence, when 
the bearer of this, Mr Syme, and you meet ! 
I wish I could also make one. — 1 think we 
should be 

Finally, brethren, farewell ! "Whatsoever 
things are lovely, whatsoever things are gentle, 
whatsoever things are charitable, whatsoever 
things are kind, think on these things, and 
think on 

ROBERT BURNS. 



Sunday, 14iA February, 1790. 
Cod help me ! I am now obliged to join 
"Night to day, and Sunday to the week. " 

If there be any truth in the orthodox faith of 
these churches, I am past redemp- 
tion, and what is worse, . to all eter- 
nity. I am deeply read in Boston's Fourfold 
SLUe, Marshall on Suiiclificalion, Guthrie's 
Trial of a saving Interest, i)-c. but "There is 
no balm in Gilead, there is no physician 
there, " for me ; so I shall e'en turn Armiuian, 



TO MR HILL. 

Ellisland, 2d Ma-ci. ""90. 
At a late meeting of the Monklai "endly 

Society, it was resolved to augment tht library 
by the following books, which you are to send 
us as soon as possible: — The Mirror, The 
Lounger, Man of Filing, Man of the World, 
(these for my own sake 1 wish to have by the 
first carrier) Knox's History of the Reformat 
lion ; Roe's HUlory of Uu- Rebellion in '1715 ; 
any good History of liie Rebellion in 1745 ; A 
Display of the Secession Act and T'es'imony, by 
Mr Gibb; Hermt/'s Meditations; Btver'idge's 
Thoughts ; and auother copy of Watson 's Body 
of Divinity. 

I incite to Mr A. Masterton three or four 
months ago, to pay some money he owed me 
into vour hands, and lately 1 wrote to you to 
the same purpose, but I have heard from nei- 
ther one or other of you. 

In addition to the books I commissioned in 
my last, I want very much. An Index to ths 
Excise Laws, or an Abridgment of all the Sla- 
tides now in force, relative to ihe Excise, by 
Jellinger Symons : I want three copies of ihia 
book; if it is now to be had, cheap or dear, 



-DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



get it for me. An honest cocntry neighbour 
cf mine wants, too, A Family Bible, the larger 
the better, but second handed, for he does not 



them up, second-handed or cheap, copies cf 
Oiu-ay's Dramate Works, Ben Joruon's, Dry- 
den's, Confrere's, Wyeheiley't, Vanbrugh's, 
Cibber's, or any Dramatic Works of tbe more 
modern — Maddin, Garrick, Feole, Co- man. or 
Sheridan. A good copy too of Hotiere, in 
French, I much wanU Any other good dra- 
matic authors in that language I want a'so ; 
but comic authors chiefly, though I should 
wish to have Racine, CJrneilie. and Viltarre 
too. I am in no hurry fcr all, or any of these, 
but if you accidentally meet with them very 
cheap, get them for me. 

And cow, to qu.t the dry walk of business, 
how do you do, my dear friend ? and how is 
I trust if now and then not so 
elegantly handsome, at least as amiable, and 
sings as divinely as ever. My good-wife too 
has a charming "wood-note wild;" now 



I am out of all patience with thi* Tile wcrid, 
for one thing. Mankind are by nature bene- 
Tolent creatures ; except in a few scoundrelly 
■Btanees, 1 co not think that avarice of the 
good things we chance to have, is born with 
tis ; but we are placed here amid so much 
nakedness, and hunger, and poverty, and want, 
that we are under a cursed necessity cf study- 
ing seltishuess, in order that we may exist ! 
Still there are, in every a?e, a few souls, that 

1 . . r ■ " .■ .- 1 - _ ■■ : :; " - - ' .-. . ' - . -• r ' 

selfishness, or even to the neees 
caution and prudence. If ever I am in danger 
of vanity, it is when I contemplate uyseK 
this side of my disposition and character. 
God knows I am no saint ; 1 have a whole 
host of fellies and sins to answer for ; but if 1 
eould, and I bel:eve I do it as tar as I can, I 
would wipe away all tears from all eyes. 
Adieu! 



TO MRS DUNLOP. 

EOisland, 10 !h April, 1790. 
: now, my ever-honoured friend, 
enjoyed a very hi^ii luxury, in reading a paper 
of the Lounger. " You know my national pre- 
judices. I had often read and admired the 
Spectator, Adeenturer. Rambu . 

I a certain relief, that they were 
bo thoroughly and ei 

.. .t are ail the 
boasted advantages which my country reaps 
from tbe Union, that can counterbalance the 
annihilation of her independence, and even her 
Tery name ! I oi;en repeat that couplet of my 
favourite po*», Goldsautfa — 



ceietrated 
, man who 



Nothing can recor.c;!' rre to the « 

r.sh court," 
8tc And lam out of all patience to see that 
equivocal cbari; ter, Hastings, impeached by 
"the Commons of England. " 'leil roe, my 
friend, hi this weak prejudice ? i 
my conscience such idea;, as, »« my country ; 
her independence ; her honour ; the illustrious 
names that mark the history of my native 

la:.d, " ie 1 believe these, tmong your men 

of the World— men who in fact guide for the 
most part and govern our wor;d, are looked on 
as so many mouifceatious of wronglieadecness. 
ILey know the use of bawling out such terms, 
to rouse or lead the rabble ; but for their 
own private use, with almost all the cbie s tales- 
men that ever existed, or now exist, when they 
talk of right and wrong, they on y mean proper 
and improper ; and the.r measure of conduet 
is, not what they oxgkt, but what they dare. 
lor the truth of" ibis 1 shall not ransack the 
history of nations, but appeal to one of the 
ablest judges of men, an 
ablest men that ever iived- 
Earl of Chesterfield. In fa 
conid thoroughly control h s 
they interfered with his interest, and who 
could completely put on the appearance of 
■s ft'teu as it suited his purposes, 
is, on the Stanhopian plan, the perfect man ; a 
man to lead nations. But are great abilities, 
complete without a flaw, and poiished without 
e blemish, tbe standard of human excellence ? 
1 h:s is certainly the staunch opinion of taen cf 
the world ; but I call on honour, virtue, and 
worth, to give tbe Stygian doctrine a loud ne- 
gative I However, this mnst be allowed, that, 
abstract from man the idea of an exist- 
; je measure 

proper and improper. 
-■.siliens of the heart, 
are in that case, of scareelj iLe import and 
va^ue lo tbe world at large, as harmony and 
discord in the modifications of sound ; and a 
delicate sense of honour, like a lioe ear fcr 
music, though it may sometimes give the pos- 
sessor an ecstasy unknown to the coarser 
organs of the nerd, yet, considering :he harsh 
gratings, and inharmonic jars, in this ill-tuned 
stale of being, it is odds but the individual 
would be as happy, and certainly would be as 
much respected by the true judges of society, 
as it would tbeu stand, without either a good 
ear or a good heart. 

You must know I ba^e just met with the 
Mirror aud Lounger for the first time, and I 
uite in raptures with them : I should be 
it op uiou cf some of the papers, 
cue I have just read, Lotmger i ~Sl. 61, 
ost me more honest tears than anything 
I ha\e read of a lo.vg time. M'Kenzie has 
Leeu called the Aucisou of the Scots, and in 
At -istn would not be hurt at the 
"s exquisite 
? certainly i undoes him in the 
tenter and the pathetic. His Jd^n if Feeling 
(but I am not counsel-learned in the laws of 
ism,) I estimate as the first performance 
s kiud I ever saw. From what books, 
moral or even pious, will the susceptible young 
mind receive impressions more congenial to 
generosity and bene- 
volence; in short, more of all that cr.ncbit-s 
the soul to herself, or end« 



BURNS.— LETTERS. 



than from the simple affecting tale of poor 
IKrirv. 

Still, with all my admiration of M'Kenzie'a 

writings, I do not know if they are the fittest 
leading for a young mau who is about to set 
cat, as the plirase is, to make his way into life. 
Do not you think, madam, that among the few 
favoured of Heaven in the structure of their 
minds (for such there certainly are), there may 
be a purity, a tenderness, a dignity, an elegance 
of soul, which are of no Use, na>, in some de- 
gree, absolutely disqualifying for the truly 
important business of makir<r a man's way huo 
life. If I am not much mistaken, my gallant 

young friend, A , is very much under 

these disqualifications ; and for "the young fe- 
males of a family I could mention, well may 
they excite parental solicitude, for I, a common 
acquaintance, or, as ray vanity will have it, an 
humble friend, have often trembled for a turn 
of mind which may render them eminently 
happy -or peculiarly miserable ! 

I liave been manufacturing some verses 
lately ; but as I have got the most hurried 
season of excise business over, I hope to have 
more leisure to transcribe any thing that may 
show how much I have the honour to be, 
madam, yours / &c. 



FROM MR CUNNINGHAM. 

Edinburgh, 2olh May, 1790. 

MY DEAR BUMP'S, 
I am much indebted to you for your last 
friendly, elegant epistle, and it shall make a 
part of the vanity of my composition, to retain 
your correspondence through life. It was 
remarkable your introducing the name of >.ii»s 
; when she was in such ill 



he; 



md 1 l 



of a consumption. Alas! that so much beauty 
innocence, and virtue, should be nipt in the 
bud. Her's was the smile of cheerfulness— of 
sensibility, not of allurement ; and her elegance 
esponded with the purity aud 



elev 



of her 



.ad. 



How does your friendly muse ? I am sun 
she still retain^ her affection for you, and ilia 
you have many of her favours in your posses 
sion, which I have not seen. I weary niuc! 
to hear from you. I beseech you, do not forge 



I mo3t sincerely hope all your concerns in 
life prosper, and that your roof-tree enjoys fhe 
blessing of jrood health. All your friends here 
era well, among whom, and not ike least, is 
r acquaintance, Cleghorn. As for myself, 



s far a 



let a man be ; but with these I 



a happy. 



When you meet with rny very agreeable 
friend, J. Sjme. give him for me a hearty 
squeeze, and bid Cod bless him. 

Is there any probability of your being soon 
ia Edinburgh ? 



TO DR MQ ORE. 
Dumfries, Excise-Office, HUiJuly, 1790. 

SIR, 
Coming into town this morning, to attend my 
duty in this office, it being collection-day, "l 
met with a gentleman who tells me he is on 
his way to London ; so I take the opportunity 
of writing to you, as franking is at present 
under a temporary death. I shall have some 
snatches of leisure through the day, amid our 
horrid business and bustle, and I shall improve 
them as well as I can ; but let my letter be as 

stupid as , as miscellaneous as a 

newspaper, as short as a hungry graee-before- 
meat,cr as long as a law-paper in the Douglas- 
cause ; as ill-spelt as country John's billet- 
doux, or as unsightly a scrawl as Betty Byre- 
mucker's answer to it ; I hope, considering 
.circumstances, you will forgive it ; and as it 
will put jou to no expense of postage, I shall 
have the less reflection about it. 

I am sadly ungrateful in not returning you 
»ny thanks for your most valuable present, 
ZducOj. In fact, you are in some degree 
Dlameable for my neglect. You were pleased 
to express a wish for ray opinion of the work, 
which so flattered me, that nothing less would 
serve my overweening fancy, than a formal 
criticism on tue book. In fact, I have gravely 
planned a comparative view of you, Fielding, 
Richardson, and Smollet, in your different 
qualities and merits as novel-writers. This, I 
own, betrays my ridiculous vanity, and I may 
probably never bring the business to bear; but 
I am fond of the spirit young Elihu shows in 
the book of Job — "And I said, I will also 
declare my opinion. " I have quite disfigured 
my copy of the took with my annotations. I 
never take it up, without at the same time 
taking my pencil, and marking with asterisks, 
parentheses, &c. wherever 1 meet with an ori- 
ginal thought, a nervous remark on life and 
manners, a remarkably well turned period, or 
a character sketched with uncommon preci- 

Though I shall hardly think of fairly writ- 
ing out my "Comparative View," I shall 
certainly trouble you with my remarks, such 
as they are. I have just received from my 
gentleman, that horrid summons in the book 
of Revelations — " That time shall be no 



The little collection of sonnets have e 
charming poetry in them. If indeed I am 
debted to the fair author for the book, 
not, as I rather suspect, to a celebrated au 
of the other sex, I should certainly have v 
ten to the lady, with my grateful ac-knowli 
ments, and my own ideas of the compare 
excellence of her pieces. I would do this 1 
not from any vanity of thinking that my 
marks could be of much consequence to 
Smith, but merely from my own feelings a 
author^.doing as I would be done by. 



D1AM0KD CABINET LIBRARY. 



TO .MRS DUNLOP. 

r>BAK MADAM, Sth August, 17 90. 

Ifter a long day's toil, plague, and care, ] 
ic down to\vrile to you. Ask me not why! 



bowing, scraping 

"Well, I hope writing to you, will ease a 
litue my troubled soul. Sorely has it been 
braised to-day ! A ci-devant friend of mine, 
and an intimate acquaintance of yours, has 
given my feelings a wound that I perceive will 
gangrene dangerously ere it cure. He has 
wounded my pride ! 



TO MR CUXNLXGHAM. 

EUisland, Blh August, 1790. 
Forgive me, my once dear, and ever deaj 
friend, my seeming regligenee. You canuo; 
sit down, and fancy the"busy life I lead. 

I laid down my goose feather to beat mj 
brains for an apt simile, and had some thoughts 
of a country grannam at a family christening : 
a bride on the market-day before'her marriage; 



a tavern-keeper at an election dinner, &c. &c 
— but the resemblance that hits my fancy besi 
is, that blackguard miscreant, Satan, whc 
roams about like a roaring lion, seeking, 
searching whom he may devour. However, 
tossed about as I am, if I choose (and whc 
would not choose) to bind down with ths 
crampets of attention, the brazen foundation 
of integrity, I may rear up the superstructure 
of Independence, and, from its daring turrets, 
bid defiance to the storms of fate. Ana is not 
this a " consummation devoutly to be wish- 
ed? » 



" Thy spirit, Independence, let me share ; 

Lord of the lion heart, and eagle-eye J 
Thy steps I follow with my bosom bare, 

Xor heed the storm that howls along t] 
sky!" 

Are not these noble verses ? They are the 
introduction of Smollei's Ode to Independence : 
If you have not seen the poem, I will send it 
to you. How wretched is the man that hangs 
on by the favours of the great. To shrink 
from every dignity of man, at the approach of 
a lordly piece of self-consequence, who, amid 
all his tinsel glitter, and stately hauteur, is but 
a creamre formed as thou art — and perhaps 
not so well formed ss thou art — cams into the 



No. CI. 

FROM DR ELACKLOCK. 

Edbibvrgk, 1st September, 1790. 
How does my dear friend ? — much I languish 

to hear, 
His fortune, relations, and pJI that are dear : 
With love of the Muses so strongly still smit- 

I meant this epistle in verse to have written ; 
Bui from age and infirmity, indolence flows, 
And this, much I fear, will restore me lo 



. and worth, 
Who scon a performance intends to set forth ; 
A work miscellaneous, extensive, and free, 
Which will weekly appear, by the name of the 

Bee. 
Of this from himself I inclose you a plan, 
And hope you will give what assistance \cu 

Entangled with business, and haunted with 

In which more or less human nature must 

share, 
Some moments of leisure the Muses will 



With some rays of your genius her work may 

Whilst the flower whence her honey spoutu* 

neously flows, 
As fragrantly' smells, and as vig'reusly grows. 

Now with kind gratulations 'tis time to con- 

And add, your promotion is here understood ; 
> free from the servile employ of ex- 



We hope si 



you commence super- 
leisure, and free from 



You then, mi 

control, 
May indulge the strong passion that reigns 

your soul. 
But I, feeble I, must to nature give way ; 
Devoted cold death's and longevity 's prey. 
From verses tho' languid my thoughts ms 

unbend, 
Tho' still I remain j cur affectionate friend, 
THO. ELACKLOCK. 



* The preceding letter explains the feelings 
under which this was written. The strain of 
indignant Invective goes on some lime longer 
in the style which our bard was too apt to in- 
dulge, and of which the reader has already 
seen so much. 



BURNS — LETTERS. 



No. CII. 

EXIRACT OF A LETTER 

FROM MR CUNNINGHAM. 

Edinburgh, Uth October, 17S0. 
I lately received a letter from our friend 

B , — what a charminjr fellow lost to 

society — born to great 



• abiliti 



pill 



! heart and I 



.med 



morals, his fate in life has been hard indeed- 
stiil 1 am persuaded he is happy ; not l.ke the 
gallant, the gay Lothario, but in the simplicity 
of rural enjoyment, unmixed with regret at the 
remembrance of *• the days of other years. " 

I saw Mr Dunbar put, under the cover of 
your newspaper, Mr Wood's Poem on Thom- 
son. This poem has suggested an idea to me 
which you alone are capable to execute : — a 
^•jong adapted to each season of the year. The 
»ask is difficult, but the theme is charming : 
should you succeed, I will undertake to get 
Jiew music worthy of the subject. What a 
fine field for your imagination, and who is 
there alive can draw so many beauties from 
Nature and pastoral imagery as yourself? It 
is, by the way, surprising that there does not 
exist, so far as I know, a proper so7ig for each 
season. We have songs on hunting, fishing, 
skaiting, and one autumnal song, Harvest 
Home. As your muse is neither spavied nor 
rusty, you may mount the hill of Parnassus, 
and return with a sonnet in your pocket for 
every season. For my suggestions, ]f I be 
rude, correct me; if impertinent, chastise me; 
if presuming, despise me. But if you blend 
all my weaknesses, and pound out one grain 
of insincerity, then am I not thy 

Faithful friend, &c. 



TO MRS DUNLOP. 

November, 1790. 
"As cold waters to a thirsty soul, so is good 
news from a far country. " 

Fate has long owed me a letter cf good news 
from you, in return for the many tidings of 
sorrow which I have received. In this in- 
stance I most cordially obey the apostle — 

-*' Rejoice with them that do rejoice" for me 

to sing for joy is no new tlnng ; but to preach 
for joy, as I have done in the commencement 
of this epistle, is a pitch of extravagant rapture 
to which I never rose before. 

I read your letter— I literally jumped for 
joy — How could such a mercurial creature as a 
poet, lumpishly keep his seat on the receipt 
of the best news from his best friend. I seized 
niy gilt-headed Wangee rod, an instrument 
indispensably necessary, in my left hand, in 
the moment of inspiration and rapture ; and 
stride, stride— quick and quicker— out skipt I 
among the broomy banks of Nith, to muse over 
niv joy bj retail. To keep within the bounds 
•f prose was impossible. Mrs Little's is a 



195 

omplv- 



more elegant, but not a more sincere < 
ment to the sueet little fellow than I, extem- 
pore almost, poured out to him in the following 
verses. See the poem — On the Birth cfa Post- 
humous Chud. 

I am much flattered by your approbation of 
my Tarn o* Shanter, which you express in 
yo'ur former letter, though, by the bye, you 
load me in that said letter with accusations 
heavy and many; to all which I plead not 
guilty ? Your book is, I hear, on the road to 
reach me. As to printing of poetry, when you 
prepare it for the press, ycu have only to spell 
it right, and place the capital letters properly ; 
as to the punctuation, the printers do that 
themselves. 

I have a copy of Tarn o' Shanter ready to 
send vcu by the first opportunity : it is too 
heaw'to .end by post. 

I beard of Mr Corbet lately. He, in conse- 
quence of your recommendation, is most zeal- 
ous lo serve me. Please favour me soon with 
an account of your good folks ; if Mrs H. is 
recovering, and the young gentleman doing 



No. CIV. 
TO MR CUNNINGHAM. 

EUislcnd, 23d January, 1791. 
Many happy returns of the season to you, my 
dear friend ! As many of the good things of 
this life, as is consistent with the usual mix- 
ture of good and evil in the cup of being ! 

1 have just finished a poem, which you Yvill 
receive inclosed. It is my first essay in the 
way of tales. 

1 have, these several months, been hammer- 
ing at an elegy on the amiable and accomplished 
Miss Burnet. I have got, and can get, no 
farther tban the following fragment, on which, 
plta-=e give me your strictures. In ail kinds of 
poetic composition, 1 set great store by your 
opinion ; but in sentimental verses, in the poe- 
try of the heart, no Roman Catholic ever set 
more value on the infallibility of the Holy 
Father than I do on yours. 

I mean the introductory couplets as text 



OX THE LATE MISS BURNET OF MONBODDO. 

Life ne'er exulted in so rich a prize, 
As Burnet, lovely from her native skies ; 
Nor envious dea'h so triumph 'd in a blow, 
As that which laid the accomplished Burnet 
low. 

Thy form and mind, sweet maid, can I forget ; 
In richest ore the brightest jewel set I 
In thee, high Heaven above was truest shown, 
As by his noblest work the Godhead best is 



DIAMOND CABINET LIERARY. 



Frinoes, whose cumb'rcus pride was 
worth, 

Shall venal lays their pompous exit 1 
And thou, sweet excellence ! forsake o( 

And not a muse in honest grid L e n a 



No. CY. 

TO ME PETER KILL. 

lllh January, 1791. 
T.-ke ihese two guinecs, and place them over 

against that . account of jours, which 

has gagged my mouth these live or sis months ! 
I can as littie write good things s>s apologies 
to the man I owe money to. O the supreme 
curse of* making three guineas do the business 
of five! Not alt the labours of Hercules ; not 
all the Hebrews' three centuries of Egyptian 
Londage were such an insuperable business, 
sucti an task! ! Poverty ! thou half- 
sister of death, thou cousin- german of hell! 
where shall I find force of execration equal to 
the amplitude of ihy demerits ? Oppressed by 
thee, the venerabie ancient, grown hoary in 
the practice of every virtue, laden with years 
aud wretchedness, implores a little— little aid 
to support his existence, fr.m a stony-hearted 
sou of Mammon, whose sun of prosperity never 
knew a cloud ; and is by him denied and in- 
sulted. Oppressed by ihee, the man of senti- 
ment, whose heart glows with independence, 
and melts with sensiliiit., ink pines under the 
neglect, or writhes in bitterness of soul, under 
the contumely of arrogant, unfeeling wealth. 
Oppressed by thee, the son of genius, whose 
ill-starred ambition plants him at the tables of 
the fashionable and polite, must see, in suffer- 
ing silence, his remark neglected, and his 
person despised, w 



follies ar.d extravagance, are spirit aud fire ; 
:oi:soq;.er.t wants, are the embarrassments 
) honest fellow ; and when, to remedy tb.3 
ter, he has gained a legal commission to 
plunder distant provinces, or massacre peace- 
at;ons, he returns, perhaps, laden with 
joiis cf rapine and aiurderj lives wicked 

especled, and dies a and a lord. 

— Nay, worst of all, alas for helpless woman ! 
the needy, prostitute, who has shivered at the 

of carnal prostitution, is left neglected and in- 
sulted, ridden down by the chariot wheels of 
the coronettd rip, hurrying on to the guilty 
assignation: she, who, without the same 
necessities to plead, riots nightly in the same 
guilty trade. 

Well, divines may say of it what they 



his i 



tud applai 



, shall : 
Not 



villi 
s it only the 
' omplain 



.art e 


lually under l 
of uufortana 


i> rod. 





Wil 


g to thee, 


6 ecu 


leruned 




a fool for his 


-; ;iJ . 


an, despised 


and shi 


III: 




is a needy 


retch 














: and when 1 




ci; 


led 


necessities 


irvti hi 


in to dishones 


t piT.Ctic 




he 


s aLhorred 




>cieaut, end 




6 


the 


justice Of 




ntry. But f 


r other-,- ': 


s is 


the lot of 


e :;.. 


u of tanillj 


sad foj 


u; 


e. 


His early 



but I 






) the 



find, what 



phlebotomy is to the body ; the vital slui 
Loth are wonderfully relieved by their respec- 



No. CVT. 

FROM A. F. TYTLEE, ESQ. 

Edinburgh, Uih March, 1791. 

DEAR SIK, 

Mr Kill yesterday put into my hands a sheet 
of Grcse's AiitiC'-Hic?, containing a poem of 
yours, eniitkd Tarn o' Shunter, a tale. The 
*ery high pleasure I have received from the 
perusal of this admirable piece, I feel, demands 
the warmest acknowledgments. Hill teils u.e 
he is to send off a packet for you this day ; I 
cannot resist theielore putting on paper what 
1 must have told vou in person, had I met 
with vou after the recent perusal of your tale, 
which is, that I feel I owe you a debt, which, 
if unuischarged, would reproach me with in- 
gratitude. I have seldom in my life tasted of 
higher enjovmeut from any work of genius, 
than I have received from this composition ; 
and I am much mistaken, if this poem alone, 
had you never written another syllable, would 
not "have been sufficient to have transmitted 
your name down to posterity w ith high repa- 
tation. In the introductory part, where vcu 
paint the character of your hero, and exhibit 
him at the ale-house ingle, with his tippling 
cronies, you have delineated nature with a 
humour and naivete, that would do honour to 
Matthew Prior; but when you describe the 
unfortunate orgies of the witches' sabbath, 
and the hellish scenery in which they are ex- 
hibited, you display a power of imagination, 
that Shakspeare himself could not have ex- 
ceeded. I know not that 1 have ever met 
with a picture of mere horriLle fancy than the 

" Coffins stood round like open presses, 
That showed the dead in their last dresses 
And by some ileviiish cantrip slight, 
Each in his cauld hand held a light." 



' A knife a father's throat had mr.ugled. 
Whom his aiu sou of life bereft » * 

..-.fi£ •,:.' slack iv L'ickeJU* 



BURNS LETTERS. 



And here, fiflrr the two following lines, 
•' Wi' u:airo' horrible and awfu', "&c. the de- 
scriptive part might perhaps have been Letter 
closed, than the four lines which succeed, 
which, though good in themselves, yet as they 
derive all their merit from the satire they con- 
tain, are here rather misplaced amoug the cir- 
cumstances of pure horror.* The initiation 
of the young witch is most happily described — 
the effect of her charms, exhibited in *' - 
dance, on Satan himself- the apestrcphi 
•'Ah, little thought thy reverend grannie ! ' 



the transport of Tain, who forget 
and enters comoletelv into t he 
s of hieh 



irit of 
scene, are all fei 
excellent composition. The only fault it pos- 
sesses, is, that the winding up, or conclusion 
of the story, is not commensurate to the inter- 
est which is excited by the descriptive and 
characteristic painting of the preceding parts. 
—The preparation is line, but the result is not 
adequate. But for this, perhaps, you have a 
good apology — you stick to the popular tale. 

And now that I have got out my mind, and 
feel a little relieved of the weight of that debt 
1 owed you, let me end this desultory scroll by 
an advice: — You have proved your talent for 
a species of composition, in which but a very 
few of our own poets have succeeded — Go on 
— write more tales in the same style; you 
■will eclipse Prior and La Fontaine ; for, with 
equal wit, equal power of numbers, and equal 
naivete of expression, you have a bolder, and 
more vigorous imagination. 

f am, dear Sir, with much esteem, 
Yours, &c. 



No. CVII. 
TO A. F. TYTLER, ESQ. 



Nothing less than the unfortunate accident I 
have met with, could have p evented my 
grateful acknowledgments for your letter. His 
own favourite poem, and that an essay in a 
walk of the muses entirely new to hiin, where 
consequently his hopes and fears were in the 
most anxious alarm for his success in the- at- 
tempt ; to have that poem so much applauded 
by one of the first judges, was the most delici- 
ous vibration that ever trilled along the heart- 
strings of a poor poet. However, providthce, 
to keep up the proper proportion of evil with 
the good, which it seems is necessary in this 
sublunary state, thought proper to check my 
exultation by a very serious misfortune. A 
day or two after I received jour letter, my 
horse came down with me, and broke my right 
arm. As this is the hist service my arm has 
done me since ite disaster, I find m 



o do n 



e th.r,. 



•al t 



,::„k 



you for this additional instance of yoi 
age and friendship. As to the fauits you 
detected in the piece, they are truly there: one 
of them, the hit at the lawyer and priest, I 
shall cut out j as to the falling off in the catas- 



not easily be remedied. Your approbation, 

sir, has given me such additional spirits to 
persevere in this species of poetic composition, 
that I am already revolving two or three stories 
in my fancy. If I can bring these floating 
ideas to bear any kind of embodied form, it 
will give me an additional opportunity of as- 
suring you how much I have the hoaour to 
be, &c. 



No. CVIII. 

TO MRS DUNLOP. 

Ellislar.d, 7th February, J 791. 
When I tell you, madam, that by a fall, not 
from my horse, but with my horse, I have beeu 
a cripple some time, nnd that this is the first 
day my arm and hand have been able to serve 
me in writing; you will allow that it is tco 
good an apology for my seemingly ungrateful 
siltnee. I am now getting better, and am able 
to rhyme a little, which implies some tolerable 
ease : as I cannot think that the most poetic 
genius is able to compose on the rack. 

I do not remember if ever I mentioned to 
you my having an idea of composing an elegy 
on the late Miss Burnet of lUonboddo. I had 
the honour of being pretty well acquainted 
with her, and have seldom felt so much at the 
loss of an acquaintance, as when 1 heard that 
so amiable and accompl shed a piece of God'9 
works was no more. 1 have as yet gone no 
farther than the following fragment, of which 
please let me have your opinion. You know 
that elegy is a subject so much exhausted, that 
any new idea on the business is not to be ex> 
pected ; 'tis well if we can place an old idea in 
a new light. How far I have succeeded as to 
this last, you wilt judge from what follows : — 

(Herefc'doiL-s the Eegy, $-c. adding ttts'oerse.) 



I have proceeded no further. 

Your kind letter, with your kind remem- 
brance of your god-son, came safe. This last, 
madam, is scarcely what my pride can bear. 
As (o the little fellow, he is, partiality apart, 
the finest boy T have of a long time seen. He 
is now seventeen months old, has the small-pox 
and measles over, has cut several teeth, and 
vet never had a grain of doctor's drugs in his 

I am truly happy to hear that the * * little 

floweret" is blooming so fresh and fair, and that 
the " mother plant" is rather recovering her 
drooping head. ! ' Soon and well may her "cruel 
wounds" be healed '. I have written thus far 
with a good deal of difficulty. When I get & 
little abler you shall hear farther (10m, 

Madam, yours, Sec, 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



TO LADY W. M. COXSTAELE.. 

■DGIBS A PKE5£>CT CF A VAZ.V- 
iBLB SSlTf-BOX, VTITH A fJM 71- 
TVRE OF 2LARY QDEBH OOF SCOTS] . H rBS 



MTLADr, 

Nothing less than the unlucky accident of 
haviug lately broken my right arm, could hare 
prevented me, the moment I received your 
ladyship's elegant present by Mrs Miller, from 
returning you my warmest and most grateful 
■ eats. I assure your ladyship, I 

or.ly be more sacred. In the moment" of poetic 
composition, the box sha.1 be my inspiring 
£-:.. _s. \\ hen I would breathe the compre^ 
hensive wish of benevolence for the happiness 
C' Bikers, I s hall recollect your ladyship ; when 
I would interest my fancy "in the distresses in- 
cident to Humanity, I shall remember the un- 
fortunate ifary. 



MBS GRAHAM OF FTXTBY. 



Whether it is that the story of our Mary 
Queen of Scots, has a peculiar effect on the 
feelings of a poet, or whether I have, in the 
i-z z-:Z. zz..zc. surjir-e- .:-.- ::_■ .;_;.. 
poetic success, I know not : but it has pleased 
me beyond any effort, of my muse for a good 
while past ; on that account 1 inclose it parti- 
cularly to you. It is tree, the purity of my 
motives may be suspected. 1 am already 

deeply indebted to Mr G *6 goodness'; 

and, what in the usual troys of Men, is of infi- 
nitely greater importance, Mr G. can do me 
service of the utmost importance in time to 
- : : 1 ;=.:- - . : r : ._.::: 

I may occasionally pick a better bone than 1 
nsed to do, I know 1 must live and die poor; 
but I will indulge the nattering faith that mj 
; . -■..-_• :■■'.'.:. ■ - : 

and without any fustian affectation of spirit! 1 
can promise and affirm, that it must oe no or- 
dinary craving of the latter shall ever make me 
do any thing injurious to the honest f-me of 
the former. Whatever may be mj failings, 
for failings are a part of human nature, may 
'-7 r- -- -- : :;;::':;:.-.-::.-:;L::.-, : _ -."_ 
independent mind ! It is no fault of mine 
- : .-a to dependence ; nor is it Mr 
G 's ehiefest praise that he can com- 

mand iufl&ence ; but it is Lis merit to bestow, 
aot only with the kindness of a brother, but 
with the politeness of a gentleman ; and I 
trust it shall be mine, to receive with thank- 
fulness, and remember with undiminished gra- 
ItMfa 



Xo. CXL 
FROM THE KEY. G. EAIRD. 

sra» London, 8th Februcri , 1791. 

I trouble you with this letter, to inform voa 
that 1 am in hopes cf teing able Tery scon to 
bring to the press a new edition (long since 
talked of) of Michad Brace's Poems. The 

pructs of the edition are to go to his mother 

- 
helpless. The poems are to be published by 
subscription ; and it may be possible, I think, 
to make out a 2s. 6d. or 3s. volume, with the 
assistance of a few hitherto unpublished verses, 
which I have got from the mother of the 
poet. 

But the design I have in view in writing to 
you, is, not merely to inform you of these facts, 
it is to solicit the aid cf your name and pen in 
support of the scheme. The reputation of 
Bruce is already high with every it nil i if 
-., and 1 shall be anxious to guard 
against tarnishing his character, by allowing 
any new poems to appetr thru m; 
For this purpose, the .VbS. I air 
of, have been submitted to the revision of some 
whose critical ta.enis I can trust to, and I 
mean still to subm.t them to others. 

May 1 beg to know, therefore, if yen will 
take the trouble of perusing the AiSS. — of 
giving your cp nion, and suggesting what cur- 
._ - .-. e . :.-. li.-.rz.. ::.;. . r i:-_t: i '_ = ..:;. ;....- 
to ycu as advisable ? And will you aliow us 
to let it be known, that a few lines by you will 
be added : ._r volume ? 

1 know the extent of this request — It is 
bold to make it. But 1 have this consolation, 
that though you see it proper to re: a 
will not blame me for having mace it; Juu 
will see my apology in the motnre. 

May I just add,"that Michael Bruce is one 
.:. ■..;._ _ - : . -._._ ,:.-.— _.- . = •. z. z . in . -. 
you would" not, 1 am convinced, blush to be 
found; an i as I wouid submit every line of 
his that should now be published, to your own 
criticisms, you would be assured that nothing 
derogatory either to him or you, would be ad- 
mitted in that appearance he may make in 
future. 

You have already paid an honourable tri- 
bute to kindred genius in Fergussou — I fondly 
... 7 f :.._: r ._..;.-::_:---... ;.._ -.= . ; 
your patronage. 

I wish to nave the subscription papers cir- 
culated by the 14th of March, Bruce "s birth- 
day ; which, I understand, some friends in 
■cotlacd talk this year of observing - at that 
time it will be resolved, I imagine, to place a 
humble stone over his grave. Ibis, at 
least, I trust jou will agree to do — to furnish, 
a few couplets, an it.scription for it. 
On those points may I solicit an answer as 
early as possible ; a short delay might disap- 
point us in procuring that relief to the mother, 
hich is the object of the whole. 

' 7 - : .' 

cover, to the Duke of Ath-.e, Louuon. 

P. 5. — Have ycu ever seen an engraving 
published here some time ago from one of 
your poems, " lAcs pale Orb." Ifyouhav* 



BURN? LETTERS. 



189 



pot, I shall have the pleasure of sending it to 



TO THE REV. G. EAIRD, 

IN ANSWER TO THE FOREGOING. 

Why did you, my dear sir, write tome in such 
a hesitating style, on the business of poor 
Bruce? Don't I know, and hare I not felt, 
the many ills, the peculiar ills that poetic flesh 
is heir to ? You shall hare your choice of all 
the unpublished poems I have ; and had your 
letter had my direction so as to have reached 
me sooner (it only came to my hand this mo- 
ment), I should have directly put you out of 
suspense on the subject. 1 only ask, that 
some prefatory advertisement, in the book, as 
■well as the subscription bills, may b".ar, that 
the publication is solely for the benefit of 
Bruce's mother. I would not put it in the 
power of ignorance to surmise, or malice to 
insinuate, that I clubbed a share in the work 
for mercenary motives. Nor need you give 
me credit for any remarkable generosity in my 
part c» the business. I have such a host of 
peccadilloes, failings, follies, and backslidings 
(any body but myself might perhaps give some 
of them a worse appellation), that by way of 
Boiue balance, however trifling, in the account, 
I am fain to do any good that occurs in my 
very limited power to a fellow-creature, just 
for the selfish purpose of clearing a little the 
vUta of retrospection. 



No. CXIIL 

TO DR MOORE. 

Ellisland, 2Slh February, 17 
I do not know, sir, whether you are a 
scriber to Grose's Antiquities of Scotland. If 
you are, the inclosed poem will not be altoge- 
ther new to you. Captain Grose did me the 
favour to tend me a dozen copies of the proof- 
sheet, of which this is one. Should you have 
read the piece before, still this will answer 
the principal end I have in view : it will give 
me another opportunity of thanking you for 
ell your goodness to the rustic bard ; and also 
of showing you, that the abilities you have 
been pleased to commend and patronize are 
still employed in the way you wis.h. 

The Eleey on Captain Henderson, is a tribule 
to the memory of a man I loved much. Poets 
have in this the same advantage as Roman 
Catholics : they can be of service to their 
friends after they have past that bourne where 
all other kindness ceases to be of any avail. 
Whether, after all, either the one or the other 
be of any real service to the dead, is, I fear, 
very problematical ; but I am sure they are 
highly gratifying to the living : and as a very 
orthodox text, 1 forget where in Scripture, 
says, «« whatsoever is not of faith, is sin:" 
•o say I, whatsoever is not detrimental to so- 



ciety, and is of positive enjoyment, is of God, 
the giver of all good things, and ought to be 
received and enjoyed by his creatures with 
thankful delight. As almost all my religious 
tenets originate from my heart, I am wonder- 
fully pleased with the idea, that I can still 
keep up a tender intercourse with the dearly 
beloved friend, or still more dearly beloved 
mistress, who is gone to the world of spirits. 

The ballad on Queen Mary was begun while 
I was busy with Percy's Reliqucs of English 
Poetry. By the way, how much is every 
honest heart, which has a tincture of Caledo- 
nian prejudice^ obliged to you for your gloriou9 
story of Buchanan and Targe. *Twas an un- 
equivocal proof of your loyal gallantry of soul, 
giving Targe the victory. I should have been 
mortified to the ground if you had not. 

I have just read over, once more, of many 
timeE, your Zeluco. 1 marked with my pencil, 
as I went along, every passage that pleased 
me particularly above the rest ; and one, or 
two, I think, which, with humble deference, 
I am disposed to think unequal to the merits of 
the book. I have sometimes thought to tran- 
scribe these marked passages, or at least so 
much of them as to point where they are, and 
send them to you. Original strokes that strong- 
ly depict the human heart, is your and Field- 
ing's province, beyond any other novelist I 
have ever perused. Richardson indeed might 
perhaps be excepted j but, unhappily, his 
dramatis verso)ice are beings of some other 
world ; and however they may captivate the 
unexperienced, romantic fancy of a boy or a 
girl, they will ever, in proportion as we have 
made human nature our study, dissatisfy our 
riper minds. 

As to my private concerns, I am going on, 
a mighty tax-gatherer before the Lord, and 
have lately had the interest to get myself rank- 
ed on the list of excise as a supervisor. I am 
not yet employed as such, but in a few years I 
shall fall into the file of supervisorship by 
seniority. I have had an immense loss in the 
death of the Earl of Gleiicuirn ; the patron 
from whom all my fame and good fortune took 
its rise. Independent of my grateful attach- 
ment to him, which was indeed so strong that 
it pervaded my very soul, and was entwined 
witii the thread of my existence ; so soon as 
ihe prince's friends had got in (and every dog, 
you know, has his day), my getting forward 
in the excise would have been an easier busi- 
ness than otherwise it will be. Though this 
was a consummation devoutly to be wished, yet, 
thank Heaven, I can live and rhyme as I am ; 
and as to my boys, poor little fellows ! if I 
cannot place them on as high an elevation in 
life as I could wish, 1 shall, if I am favoured 
so much of the disposer of events as to 6ea 
that period, fix them on as broad and indepen- 
dent a basis as poss ble. Among the many- 
wise adages which have been treasured up by 
our Scottish ancestors, this is one of the best. 
Better be the head of the commonality, as the tail 
o' the gcnhi; 

But I am got on a subject, which, however 
interesting to me, is of no manner of conse- 
quence to you ; so I shall give you a short 
poem on the other page, and close this with 
assuring you how sincerely I have the houou? 
to be, youra, &c. 



HO 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



Written on the blank leaf of a book, which I 
presented to a very yourg lady, whom I had 



No. CXIV. 
FROM DR MOORE. 

DEAR SIR, London, 29 In. Maixh, 1791. 
Your letter of the 28th of February I received 
only two days ago, and this dav I had the 
pleasure of waiting on the Rev. Mr Biird, a: 
the Duke of Athole*s, why had been so oblig- 
ing as to transmit it to me, with the printed 
verses on AUmoay Chinch., the E'ezy on Capt. 
Henderson, and the Epilaph. There are many 
poetical beauties in the former: what I parti- 
cularly admire are the three striking similes 
from 

" Or like :he snow falls in the river, 1 

and the eight lines which begin with 

«■ By this time he was cross the ford ; " 



two lines from 

•■ Coffins stood round like open presses, ' 



As for the Elegy, the chief merit of it con- 
sists in the very graphical description of the ob- 
jects belonging to the country in which the poet 
writes, and which none but a Scottish poet 
could have described, and none but a real poer, 
and a close observer of Nature, could have so 
described. 

There is something orig'ml, and to me won- 
derfully pleasng, in the Epitaph. 

I remember you once hinted before, what 
you repeat in \our last, that you had made 
some remarks on Zeluco, on the margin. I 
should be very glad to see them, and regret you 
did not send them be.'ore the iast edition, which 
is just published. Pray transcribe them for 
me, sincerely I value your opinion very highly, 
and pray do not suppress one of those in which 
you censure the sentiment or expression. 
Trust me it will break no squares between us — 
I am not akin to the Bishop of Grenada. 

I must now mention what has been on ray 
mind for some time: I cannot help thinking 
you imprudent in scattering abroad so many 
copies of your verse;. It is mcst natural to 
give a few to confidential friends, particularly 
to those who are connected with the surj-jt, or 
who are perhaps themselves the subject, but 
this ought to be done uucVr promise :.-t io give 
other copies. Of the poem you sent me on 
Queen Mary. I refused e\ery" solicitation for 
copies, but I lately saw it in a new-paper. 
My motive for cautioning you on this subject is, 
that 1 wish to engage you to coLec: a 1 year 
. •_-. not alreadj priated, and after 
ttey hsvs Lea reconsidered, and polished to 



the utmost of your power, I would have yon 
publish them by another subscription; in pi-j. 
moling of which I will exert myself with plea- 

In your future compositions, I wish you 
would use the modern English. You kite 
shown your powers in Scottish sufficiency. 
Although in certain subjic's it gives additional 
zest to the humour, yet it is lost to the Eng- 
lish j and why should you write only for a part 
of the island, when you can command the ad- 
miration of the who.e. 

If you chance to write to my friend Mrs Dun- 
lop of Dunlop, I beg to be affectionately re- 
membered to her. She must not judge of the 
warmth of my sentiments respecting her, by 
the number of my letters ; I hardlv ever write a 
line but on business : and I ao not know that I 
should have scribbled all this to you, but for 
the business part, that is, to instigate vou to a 
new publication ; and to .ell you that when you 
think you ha\e a sufficient number to make a 
volume, you should set your friends on getting 
subscriptions. I wish I could have a few 
hours' conversation with you— I have many 
things to say which I cannot write. If I ever 
goto Scotland. I will let you know, that you 
may meet me at your own house, or my friend 
Mis Hamilton's, or both. 

Adieu, my dear Sir, ore 



TO THE REV. ARCHD. ALISON. 



r Dumfries, UA Feb. 1791. 



SIR, 



t me down £ 



You must, by this time, have 
one of the most ungrateful of i 
the honour to present me with a book which 
does honour to science and the intellectual 
powers of man, aud I have not even so much 
as acknowledged the receipt of it. The fad is, 
you your=e ; f are to blame for it. Flattered as I 
was by your teliir.g roe that you wished to have 
my opinion of the work, the old spiritual ene- 
my of mankind, who knows well that vanity is 
one of the sins that most easily beset me, put 
it into my head to ponder over the performance 
with the look -out of a critic, and to draw up 
for.-ooth a ceep learned digest of strictures on 
a composition, of which, in fact, until I read 
the book, I did not even know the first prin- 
ciples. I own, sir, that at first glance, several 
if your propositions siartied me as paradoxical. 
TliKt the martial danger of a trumpet had 
something in it vastly more grand, he rose, and 
sublime, "than the twinkle twangle at a jews- 
harp ; tha! the aelicat- flexure of a rose- twig-, 
when the half-blown flower is heavy with the 
tears of the dawn, was infinitely more beautiful 
and elegant than ihe upright stub of a burdock; 
and that from something innate and indepen- 
dent of ail association of ideas ; — these I bad 
set down as irrefragable, orthodox truths, until 
.-: my faiih. In short, 
sir, except Ey.c'id's E'emc t.ts of Gtemelry, 
which I made a sr.ift to unravel Ly my fa. her 's 
fireside, in iiis vsijier evej^nga of the" iksi saa» 



BURN S LETTER S. 



ion I held the plough, I never read a book 
which pave me such a quantum of information, 
and added so much to my stock of ideas as 
your •« Blssays on the Principles of Taste. " 
One thing, sir, you must fopgive my mention- 
ing as an uneom';non merit in :he work, I menu 
the lansuage. To clcthe abstract philosophy 
in elega'nce of style, sounds something like a 
contradiction in terms ; but \on have convinced 
me that they are quite compatible. 

I inclose ton some pottic bagatelles of my 
l-.te composition. Tbe one in print is my first 
essav in the way of telling a tale. 

lam, Sir, &c. 



No. cxvr. 

EXTRACT OF A LETTER 

TO MR CUNNINGHAM. 

\2th March, 1791. 
If the foregoing piece be worth your strictures, 
let me ha e them. For ray own part, a thing 
that I have just c imposed, always appears 
thronarh a double portion of that par.'ial medium 
in which an author will ever view his own 
work-. 1 believe, in general, novelty has 
something in it that inebriates the fancy, and 
not unfreq lently dissipates and fumes away like 
other intoxication, and leaves the poor pitient, 
as usual, with an aching heart. A striking in- 
stance of tilts might be adduced, in the revolu- 
tion of many a hymeneal hon-ymoon. Hut lest 
I sink into stupid prose, and so sacrileffious'.v 
intrude on the office of my parish priest, I shall 
fill up the page in my own way, and give you 
another song of my late composition, which 
will appear, perhaps, in Job .son's work, as 
well as the former. 

^ ou niU't k ow a beautiful Jacobite air. 
There'll n ver b? peace til Jamie comes tian.e. 
When political combustion ceases to be the ob- 
ject of princes and patriots, it then, you know, 
becomes the lawful prey of hi 



your fancy, your canno' imagine, my dear 
friend, how rnuch you would oblige me, if, by 
the charms of your delightful voice, you would 
give my honest effusion to " the memory of 
joys that are past." to the few friends whom 
vo'u indulge in that pleasure. But I have 
scribbled on till I hear the clock has intimafd 
I he near approach of 

"That hour o' night's black arch the key- 
So good-night to you ! Sound be your sleep 
and delectable your dreams I Apropos, how do 
\ou like this thought in a ballad, I have just 
now on the tapis? 
I look to the west, when I gae to rest, 

That happy my dreams and my slumbers 
may be : 
For far in the west is he I lo'e best, 

The lad that is dear to my baby and me ! 

Geoci night, once more, and God b'.ess you ! 



TO MRS DUNLGP. 

Eilis'and, IVl, April, 1791. 
more able, my honoured friend, to 
i, with my own hand, thanks for the 
ances of your friendship, and particu- 
r kind anxiety in th;s iast disaster 



l;.rh f.r 



>V. £ 



s hadii 



e tor n 



H«>. 



By yon castle wa\ at the close of the day, 

I heard a man sing, though his head it was 

grey : 
And as he was singing, the tears fast down 

There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. 

The church is in ruins, the state is in ja s, 
'Delusions, oppressions, and murderous wars: 
1V<! dare na weel say't, but we ken wha's to 

There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. 



It brack the sweet heart o* my faithfu' auld 

There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. 

Now life is a burden that bows me down, 
Svi' I tint my bairns, and he tint his crown ; 
But 'till my last uument my words are the 

Tl.cre'il never be peace till Jamie com?; hame. 



Saturday morning last, Mrs Burns made ine a 
present of a tine boy ; rather stouter but not so 
handsome as your god-son was at his time 
of life. Indeed I lock on your little namesake to 
be my chef d'a>ui<re in that species of manu- 
facture, as 1 iook on Tam o' Uliauicr to be try 
standard performance in the poetical line. 
'Tis true, both the one and the other discover 
a spice of roguish w.-<gger>, that might, per- 
haps, be as well spared; Lut then (hey ail so 
show, in my opinion, a force of genius, and a 
finishing polish, that 1 despair of ever excell- 
ing. Mrs Burns is geitu g stout again, and 
laid as Instil) about her to-da\ at breakfast, as 
a r< aper from the corn ridge. That is the pe- 
culiar privilege and bWssing of our hale, 
sprightly damsels, that are bred among the 
nay and heather. We cannot hope for that 
i ighly polished mind, that charming delicacy 
of soul, which i= found among the femalo 
world in the more elevated stations of life, and 
which is certainly by far the most bewitching 
charm in the f^nious cestus of Venus. It is 
indeed such an inestimable treasure, that 
where it can be h,.d in its native heavenly puri- 
ty, unstained by some one or other of the man- 
ly .-hades cf affectation, an i unalloyed by soma 



r alio 



SL-.JCl 



Ilea-* en, 
purchased a t ie ex 
ly good ! But as th 
afraid, extremely rare in any station and rank 
cf life, and totally denied to such a humble 



with the next rank of female c: 
| a figure and face we can pro 
of life whitever; rustic, nat 



t pot 



142 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



fected modesty, and unsullied purity ; nature's 
mother-wit, and the rudiments of taste ; a 
simplicity of soul, unsuspicious of, because 
unacquainted with, the crooked wavs of a 
selfish, interested, disingenuous world: — 
and the dearest charm of all the rest, a yield- 
ing sweetness of apposition, and a generous 
■warmth of heart, grateful for love on our part, 
and ardently glowing with a mor^-than equal 
return; these, with a healthy frame, a sound 
vigorous constitution, wnich your high ranks 
can scarcely ever hope to enjoy, are the charms 
of love y woman in my humble w..!k of life. 

This "is the greatest effort my troken arm has 
yet made. Do, let me hear by first post, how 
cher petit Mc/isieur comes on with his small- 
pox. Way Almighty Goodness preserve and 
restore him I 



TO MR CUNNINGHAM. 

111A Jiaie, 1791. 
Let me interest yon, my dear Cunningham, : 
behalf of the gentleman who waits on you with 
this. He is a Mr Clarke of Moffat, principal 
schoolmaster there, and is at present suffering 

severely under the of one or two 

powerful individuals of his employers. He is 
accused of harshness to ... . that were 
placed uuder his care. God help the teacher, 
if a man of sensibility and genius, and such is 
uiy friend Clarke, when a booby father pre 
sents him with his booby son, and insists or. 
light. ng up the rays of sciatic?, ia a. fellow's 
head, whose skull is "Impervious and inaccess- 
ible by any o'.her way than a positive fracture 
with a cudgel : a fellow whom, in fact, it sa- 
vours of impiety to attempt making a scholar 
of, as he has been marked a blockhead in the 
book of fate, at the almighty fiat of his 
Creator. 

The pattons of Moffat school are, the minis- 
ters, magistrates, and town council of Edin- 
burgh, and as the business comes now before 
them, let ms beg my dearest friend to do every 
thing in Lis power to serve the interests of a 
IIS and worth, and a man whom I 
particularly respect ana esteem. You know 
some good "teliows among the magistracy and 

council, but par- 

tieelarly, you have much to say with a reve- 
rend gentleman to whom you have the honour 
of being very nearly related, and whom this 
country and age have had the honour to pro- 
duce. 1 need not name the historian of 
Charles V.* I teil him, through the medium 
of his nephew's influence, that Mr Clarke is a 
geutlemau who will not disgrace even his pa- 
tronage. I know the merits of the cause 
thoroughly, and say it, that my friend is fall- 
ing a sacrifice to prejudiced ignorance, and 
Goo help the children of de- 
pendence! Hated aud persecuted 
mies, and too often, alas ! almost unexceot 
ally, received by liter friends, with disrespect 
aud reproach, under the thin d.sguise of cold 



civility and humiliating advice. O to be a 
sturdy savage, stalking jn tfle pride of his in- 
dependence, amid the solitary wild? of his des- 
erts, rather than ia civilized life, helplessly to 
tremble for a subsistence, precarious as the ca- 
price of a fei.ow -creature ! Every man has his 
virtues, and no man is without his failings ; 
and curse on that privileged plaia-dealiug of 
friendship, which in the hour of mj calamity, 
cannot reach forth the helping hanu without at 
the same time pointing out those failings, and 
apportioning them the.r share in procuring my 
present distress. My friends, for such the 
world calls'ye, and such ye think yoursehes to 
be, pass by virtues if you please, but do, also, 
spare my tollies : the first will witness in my 
breast tor themselves, and the last will give 
pain enough to the ingenuous mind without 
you. Ana since deviating mere or less from 
the paths of propriety and rectitude, must be 
incident to human nature, do thou, fortune, 
put it in my power, always from myself, and 
of myself, to bear the consequences of those 
errors. I do not want to be independent that 
I may sin, but I want to be independent m my 
sinning. 

To return in this rambling letter to the sub- 
ject I set cut with, let me recommend my 
friend, Mr Clarke, to your acquaintance and 
goodotsces ; his worth entitles him to the one, 
and his gratitude will merit the other. I 
long much to hear from you. Adieu. 



FROM THE EARL OF EL' CHAN. 

Drybursh. Alley, 17ft June, 1791. 
Lord Buchau has the pleasure to in\ile Mr 
Burns to make one at the coronation of the 
bust of Thomson, on Ednam Hill, on the 22d 
of September ; for which day perhaps his muse 
may inspire an ode suited to the occasion. 
Suppose Mr Burns should, leaving the N.tb, 
go across the country, and meet the Tweed at 
the nearest point from his farm — and, wan- 
dering along the pastoral bunks of Thomson's 
pure parent stream, catch inspiration on the 
devious walk, till be finds Lore Buchan sitting 
on the ruins of Dry burgh. Ihere the com- 
mendator will give him a hearty welcome, and 
try to light his tamp at the pure flame of native 
genius, upon the altar of Caledonian virtue. 
J his poetical perambulation of the Tweed, is a 
thought of the late Sir Gilbert Elliot's and of 
Lord Minio's, followed out by his accomplish- 
ed grandson, the present Mr Gilbert, who, 
having been with Lord Buchau lately, the 
project was renewed, and will, they hope, be 
executed in the manner proposed. 



•- Di B»! 



ion was uncle to Mr Cunningham., 



No. CXX 
TO THE EARL OF BUCHAN, 

SIT IORD. 

Language sinks under the ardour of my feel- 
ings, when I would thank your lordship for 



BURN S LETTERS. 



the honour you have done me in inviting me 
to make one at the coronation of the bust ot 
Thomson. In my firsl enthusiasm in reading 
the card you did me the honour to write me, I 
overlooked every obstacle, and determined to 
go : but I fear it will not be in my power. A 
•week or two's absence, in the very middle of 
my harvest, is what, I much doubt, I dare not 
venture on. 

Your lordship hints at an ode for the occa- 
sion: but who would write after Collins ? I 
read over his verses to the memory of Thomson, 
and despaired.— I got indeed to the length of 
three or four stanzas, in the way of address to 
the shade of the bard, on crowning his bust. 
I shall trouble your lordship with the subjoined 
copy of them, which, I am afraid, will be but 
too convincing a proof how unequal I am to the 
task. However, it affords me an opportunity 
of approaching your lordship, and declaring 
how sincerely and gratefully I have the honour 
to be, &c. 



No. CXX1. 
FROM THE SAME. 

Dryburgh Abbey, \8lh September, 1791. 
SIR. 
Your a.ldress to the shade of Thomson has bee; 
well received by the public : and though J 
should disapprove of your allowing Pegasus tc 
ride with you off the field of your honourabli 
and useful profession, yet I cannot resist ai 
impulse which I feci at this moment to sugges 
to your muse, Harvest Home, as an excellcn 
subject for her grateful song, in which thi 
peculiar aspect and manners of cur countn 
might furnish an excellent portrait and land 
scape of Scotland, for the employment of 
happy moments of leisure and recess, from 
your mere important occupations. 

Your Halloween, and Saturday Night, will 
remain to distant posterity as interesting pic- 
tures of rural innocence and happiness in your 
native country, and were happily written in 
the dialect of the people ; but Harvest Home 
being suited to descriptive poetry, except 
where colloquial, may escape the disguise ot a 
dialect which admits of no elegance or dignity 
of expression. Without the assistance of any 
god or goddess, and without the invocation of 
any foreign muse, you may convey in epistolary 
form the description of a scene so gladdening 
and picturesque, with all the concomitant 
local position, landscape, and costume ; con- 
trasting the peace, improvement, and happiness 
of the borders of the once hostile nations of 
.Britain, with their former oppression and 
misery, and showing, in lively and beautiful 
colours, the beauties and joys of a rural life. 
And as the unvitiated heart is naturally dis- 
posed to overflow in gratitude in the moment 
of prosperity, such a subject would furnish you 
with an amiable opportunity of perpetuating 
the names of Glencairn, Miller, and your other 
eminent benefactors ; which, from what I 
know of your spirit, and have seen of your 
poems and letters, will not deviate from the 



chastity of praise, that is so uniformly united 
to true taste and genius. 



No. CXXI1. 
TO LADY E. CUNNINGHAM. 

MY LADY", 
I would, as usual, have availed myself of the 
privilege your goodness has allowed me, of 
sending you any thing I compose in my poeti- 
cal way ; but as I had resolved, so soon as the 
shock of my irreparable loss would allow me, 
to pay a tribute to my late benefactor, I deter- 
mined to make that the first piece I should do 
myself the honour of sending you. Had the 
wing of my fancy been equal to the ardour of 
my heart, the inclosed had 1 



thy yo 






, I bei 



. at your lad) ship's feet. As all the 
world knows my obligations to the late Ear! of 
Glencairn, I would wish to show as openly 
that my heart glows, and shall ever glow, 
with the most grateful sense and remembrum-e 
of his lordship's goodness. The sables I did 
myself the honour to wear to his lordship's 
memory, were not the "mockery of woe." 
Nor shall my gratitude perish with me : — If, 
among my children, I shall have a sen that 
lias a heart, he shall hand it down to his child 
as a iamily honour, and a family debt, that my 
dearest existence I owe to the noble house of 
Glencaim! 

I was about to say, my lady, that if you 
think the poem may venture to see the light, I 
would, iu some way or other, give it to the 
world.* 



TO MR AINSLIE. 

MY DEAR AIXSLIK, 
Can you minister to a mind diseased ? Cart 
you, amid the horrors of penitence, regret, 
remorse, head-ache, nausea, and all the rest 

f the hounds of hell, that beset a poor 

wretch, who has been guilty of ihe sin of 
drunkenness — can you speak peace to a 
troubled soul ? 

Miserable perdu that I am. I have tried every 
thing that used to amuse me, but in vain : here 
must I sit a monument of the vengeance laid 
up in store for the wicked, slowly counting 
every cnick of the clock as it slowly — slowly 
numbers over these lazy scoundrels of hours, 

who, them, are ranked up before me, every 

one at his neighbour's backside, and every 
one with a burthen of anguish on his back to 
pour on my devoted head— and there is none to 
pity me. "My wife scolds me ! my busiuesi 



144 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



torments me, ana my sins come staring me in 
the face, every one telling a more bitter tale 

than his fellow When I tell you even . . . 

has lost its power to please, yon will guess 
something of my hell within, and all around 
me. — I began Llibai.ks ciut f^iibracs, but the 
stanza fell unenjoyed and unfinished from my 
listless tongue; at last I luckily thought of 
reading over an old letter of yours, that lay by 
me in my book-case, and I felt something for 
the first time since 1 opened my eyes, of plea- 
surable existence. Well — I begin to 

breathe a little, since I began to write you. 
How are you, and what are you doing ? How 
goes law ? Apropos, for connection's sake, do 
not address to me supervisor, for that is an 
honour I cannot pretend to — I am on the list, 
as we call it, for a supervisor, and will be call- 
ed out by and bye lo act one ; but at present, 
I am a simple gauger, tho' t'other day I got 
an appointment to an excise divis'.on of L.25 
per aim. better than the rest. iVIy present in- 
come, down money, is L. 70 per ami. 

you would be giad n 

No. CXXIV. 
FROM SIR JOHN WHITEFCORD. 
Near Mat/bole, \6lk October, 1791. 

SIR, 
Accept of my thanks for your favour with the 
Lament on the death of my much esteemed 
friend, and voir worthy patron, the perusal of 
which pleased and affected me much. The 



liii 

1 have always thought it most natural to 
Btippose, (;.nd a strong argument in favour of 

curable and virtuous man labouring under 
bodily infirmities, and oppressed by the frowns 
of fortune in this world, that there was a hap- 
pier state beyond the grave ; where that worth 
and honour which were neglected here, would 
meet with their just reward, and where tem- 
poral misfortunes would receive an eternal 
compense. Let us che; 
departed friend ; and modi 
th.it loss we have 



ed; km 



2 for our 
:' grief for 
ng that he 



•whence I am just returned. Yonr letter was 
forwarded to me there from Edinburgh, where, 
as I observed by the date, it had lain for some 
d.-.\s. This was an additional reason for me 
Jo have answered it immediately on receiving 
it ; but the truth was, (he bustle of business, 
engagements and confusion of one kind or an- 
other, in which I found myself immersed all 
the time I was in London, absolutely put it 
out of my power. But to have done with apo- 
logies, let me now endeavour to prove myself 
in some degree deserving of the very flattering 
compliment you pay me, by g ving \cu at least 
a frank and candid", if it should not* be a judi- 
cious criticism on the poems ■sou sent me. 

The ballad of The Whittle is, in my opinion, 
truly excellent. The old tradition which you 
have taken up is the best adapted for a Baccha- 
nalian composition of any I have ever met with, 
and you have done it full justice. In the first 
place, the strokes of wit arise naturally from 
the subject, and are uncommonly happy. For 

" The hands grew the tighter the more they 



v f „ ci 



Remember me 10 your wife, and with everj 
good wish for the prosperity of you and ycui 
family, believe me, at ail times, 

Your most sincere friend, 
JOHN WHITEFOORD. 



No. CXXV. 
FROM- A. F. TYTLER, ESQ. 

Edinburgh, 27ihNov. 1791. 
You nave much reason to blame me for neglect- 
ing tili now to acknowledge the receipt of a 
most agreeable packet, containing TkeWhistle, 
a ballad; and Tite Larmiii; which reached 
ine abojt six weeks ago in London, from 



"Tho' Fate said a hero should perish inlignr, 
fc'o up rose bright Phcebus and down fell 
the knight. '* 

In the next place, you are singularly happy in 

each the sentiments and language snitable to 
bis character. And, lastly, you have much 
meri' in the delicacy of the panegyric which 
you have contrived to throw on each of the 
dramatis ]:crsor,ce, perfectly appropriate to his 
character. The compliment to Sir Kobert, the 
blunt soldier, is peculiarly fine. In short, tins 
composition, in my opinion, does you great 
honour, and I see not a line or a w'ord in it 
v.hich I could wish to be altered. 

As to The Lome?it, I suspect, from seme 
expressions in your letter to me, that you are 
mere doubtful "with respect to the merits of 
this piece than of the other, and I ow n I thir.k 
you have reason ; fcr although it contains 
some beautiful stan?as, as the first, "The wind 
blew brliow," &c. the fifth, " Ye scalter'd 
birds :" the thirteenth, " Awake thy last sad 
voice," &c. yet it appears to me faulty as a 
whole, and inferior to several of those you 
fcave already published in the same strain". My 
principal objection lies against the plan of the 
piece. I think it was unnecessary and impro- 
per to pnt the lamentation in the mouth of a 
fictitious character, s.n aged bard. —It had been 
much better to have lamented \ cur patron in 
\our own person, to have expressed your 
genuine feelings fcr his loss., and to have 
spoken tbe language of nature rather than thai 
of fiction on the subject. Compare ibis with 
your poem of the same title in your printed 
volu'm.-, which begins, thev ■pnic Orb I and 
ob.-e \e what ii is that forms the charm of that 
ccmno = iticn. It is that it speaks the language 
of truth and of nature. The change is, in my 
opinion, injudicious too in i:;is respect, that an 
aged bard has much less need of a patron and 
protector than a voting one. I have tbns given 



BURNS. -LETTERS. 



you, with much freedom, my opinion of both 
the pieces. I should have made a very ill re- 
turn to the compliment you paid me, if I bad 
given you any other than my genuine senti- 
ments. 

It will give me great pleasure to hear from 
you when you lind leisure, and I beg you will 
beli.ve me ever, dear sir, yours, &c. 



TO MISS DAVIES. 

It is impossible, madam, that the generous 
■warmth and argelic purity of your youthful 
mind, can have any idea of that moral disease 
under which I unhappily must rank as the 
chief of sinners ; I mean a lorpitude of the moral 
powers that may be called, a lethargy of con- 
science.— In vain remorse rears her horrent 
crest, and rouses all her snakes ; beneath the 
deadly fixed eye and leaden hand of indolence, 
their wildest ire is charmed into the torpor of 
the bat, slumbering out the rigours of winter 
in the chink of a ruined wall. Nothing less, 
madam, could have made me so long neglect 
your obliging commands. Indeed 1 had one 
apology — the bagatelle was not worth present- 
ing. Besides, so strongly am I interested in 

Miss D 's fate and welfare in the serious 

business of life, amid its chances and changes, 
that to make her the subject of a silly ballad, 
is downright mockery of these ardent feel- 
ings ; 'tis like an impertinent jest to a dying 

Gracious Heaven ! why this disparity be- 
tween our wishes an! our powers? Why is 
the most generous wish to make others blest, 
impotent and ineffectual — as the idle breeze 
that crosses the pathless desert ? In my walks 
of life I have met with a few people to whom 
how gladly would I have said — ' 4 Go, be hap- 
py ! I know that your hearts have been 
wounded by the scorn of the proud, whom ac- 
cident has placed above you — or worse still, in 
whose hand are, perhaps, placed many of the 
comforts of your life. But there ! ascend that 
rock, Independence, and look justly down on 
their littleness of soul. Make the worthless 
tremble under your indignation, and the fool- 
ish sink before your contempt ; and largely im- 
part that happiness to others, which, I am 
certain, will give yourselves so much pleasure 
to bestow ! " 

Why, dear madam, must I wake from this 
delightful reverie, and find it all a dream ? 
Why, amid my generous enthusiasm, must I 
lind myself poor and powerless, incapable of 
wiping one tear from the eye of pity, or of ad- 
ding one comfort to the friend I love J — Out 
upon the world ! say I, that its affairs are ad- 
ministered so ill ! They talk of reform !— good 
Heaven ! what e. reform would 1 make an 
the sons, and even the daughters of mer 
Down, immediately, should go fools from the 
high places where misbegotten chance has 
perked Ihem up, and through life should they 
skulk, ever haunted by their native irisignifi- 
the body marches accompanied by 



But the hand that could give I would lib#- 
rally fill ; and I would pour delight on the 
heart that could kindly forgive, and generously 

Still the inequalities of this life are, among 
men, comparatively tolerable — but there is ti 
delicacy, a tenderness, accompanying every 
view in which we can place lovely Woman, 
that are grated and shocked at the rude, capri- 
cious distinctions of fortune. Woman is the 
blood-royal of life : let there be slight degrees 
of precedency among them — but let them be all 
sacred. Whether this last sentiment be right 
or wrong, I am not accountable ; it is an origi- 
nal component feature of my mind. 



No. CXXVIL 

TO MRS DUNLOP. 

EllMand, 17th December, 1781. 
Many thanks to you, madam, for your good 
news respecting the little floweret and the 
mother-plant. I hope my poetic prayers have 
been heard, and will be answered up to the 
warmest sincerity of their fullest extent ; and 
then !Wrs Henri will find her little darling the 
representative of his late parent, in every 
thing but his abridged existence. 

I have just finished the following song, 
which, to a lady the descendant of Wallace, 
and many heroes of his truly illustr'ous line, 
and herself the mother of several soldiers, needs 
neither preface nor apology. 

Scene, — Afield of LaWe — lime of the day, even* 
ins — t/u: wounded and dying cf the victorious 
army are svppostd to join in the following 

SONG OF DEATH. 

Farewell, thou fair day, thou green earth, and 



Our race of existence is run ! 
Thou grim king of terrors, thou life's gloomy 



No terrors hast thou to the brave ! 

Thou strik'st t' e poor peasant— he sinks in tb.9 

Nor saves e'en the wreck of a name : 
Thou strik'st the young hero — a glorious 
mark ! 
He falls in the blaze of his fame I 

In the field of proud honour — our 6words in 

our hands, 
Our king and our country to save — 
While victory shines on life's last ebbing 

0, who would not die with the brave I 



us 



DIAMOND CARLXET LIBRARY. 



The circumstance that save rise to the fore- 
going verses was, looking'over, with a musical 
frieuc, M 'Donald's collection of Highland 
airs ; I was struck with one, an Isle of Skye 
tune, entitled Oraii an Aois, or, The Song of 
Death, to the measure of which I have adapted 
iny stanzas. I have of late composed two cr 
three other little pieces, which ere y.u foil 
orbed moon, whose broad impudent face now 
stares at old uioiher earth all night, shall have 
shrunk into a mcdest crescent, just peeping 
forth at dewy dawn, I shall find an hour to 
transcribe for i : .s coounende t 



No. CXXTCIL 

TO MRS BUWLOP. 

oih January, 1792. 
Vol! see my hurried life, madam ; I can only 
command stsrts of time ; however, I a-ri glad 
cf one thing ; since I finished the other sheet, 
the political blast that threatened my welfare 
is overblown. I h^ve corresponded with Com- 
missioner Graham, fcr the Board had made 
me the subject of their animadversions ; and 
no-.v I havethe pleasure of informing you, that 
all is set to rights in that quarter. Sow, as 
to these informers, may the devil be let loose to 

but hold ! I was pray ing most fervently 

in my last she?!, and I must not so soeu fall a 
swearing in this. 

Alas ! hew little do the wantonly or idly 
officious think what miscfa 

malicious insinuations, indirect impertinence, 
at a difference 
there is . ii asie wthj candour, benevo- 
lence, generusiry , kindness — ia ail the chari- 
ties, slid all the virtues ; betwe; i 
human beings a>d another. For instance, 
*heam : ablee ixed with in the 

of D .their generous hearts 

— their ur contaminated, dignified minds— their 
informed aiid polished understandings — what 
a contrast, when compared — if ^ucb comparing 
were not downs • . sac Bge — with the scul 
of the miscreant who can deliberately plot the 
dfs rucion of an hoi.est man that never offend- 
ed him, and wi h a gr.n of s.-.Utfacticn see the 
unforlui.aie being, h:s faithful wife, and prat- 
tling innocents, ;uia<-J o*sr to beggary and 
ru u ! 

Your ei-p, my ce-.r madam, arrived s.t."e. 1 
bad t^o worth) fellows din ng wilii me the 
oiher day, when I, with great formality, pro- 
duced my whigmeleere cup, and told thrin 
that it bad been a family-piece amoog tha 
descendants of Sir William Wallace. This 
roused such an enthusiasm, that tbey insisted 
on bumpering the punch round in it ; and by 
feud bye, never did jour great .. ! 

lore completely to rtst than fur a 

e inr cup i:; • two iiic.ids. Apropos, 

this is the season of wishing 
you, mj dear friend, a..u bless me the huin- 



TO MR WILLIAM SMELLIE, 
PRINTER. 



a yet many returns uf the 

pooa things attend you and yours, wherever 

tiiey axe scai'.ercd c\-.r : 



Dumfries, 22d January, 1792. 
I sit down, my dear Sir, to introduce a young 
lady to you, and a lady in the first ranks of 
fashion too. What a ta-k ! to you — who care 
no more for the herd ef animals called young 
ladies, than you do for the herd of animals 
called young gentlemen. To you — who de- 
spise and detest the groupings and combina- 
tions of fashion, as an idiot painter that seems 
industrious to place staring fools and unprin- 
cipled knaves in the foreground of his picture, 
while men of sense and honesty are too often 
thrown in the dimmest shades. Mrs Riddel, 
who will take this let er to town with her and 
send it to you, is a character that, even in y cur 
own way, as a naturalist and a philosopher, 
would be an acquisition to your acquaintance. 
The lady too is a votary of the muses ; and as 
I think myself somewhat of a judge in my own 
trade, I assure you that her verses, always 
correet, and often elegant, are much beyond 
the common run of the lady-pottesses of the day. 
She is a great admirer of your book, and hear- 
ted with you, 
■:• you, as she is just 
. . - 

J her that her best n 

desire her near relation, and your intimate 

Cra - bave jou at his house 

as :Lere ; and lest you mirht think 

of a lively West Indian girl of eighteen, as 

girls of eighteen too often deserve to be thought 



a 3 i:i which very much be=ets yourself; — 

dikes oi sea, =:;e is apt to 

make no more a secret cf it, than where she 

I will not present you with the unmeaning 
cowpliments of the season, but I will send \oa 

■ wishes and most ardet 
that fortune may never throw your 
to the mercy of a kna\e, or set your character 
on the judgment cf a fool, but that, upright 

where men'of letters shall say, H. , 

v. ho did honour to science! and men (.f worth 

shall say, Here 

human nature 1 



TO H2 W. MCCL 



792. 



20^. A&rmry, 1 
O thou, wisest sxeng the \ 
blaze of prudence, full moon of «.'.;.-- 
chief of many counsellors ! How iufiuiteiy w 
thy puduie-heided, rattle-headed, • 



BURNS — LETTERS. 



147 



ed, round-headed slave indebted to thy super- 
eminent goodness, that from the luminous path 
of thy own right-lined rectitude, thou looke=t 
benignly down ou an erring wretch, of whom 
the zig zag wanderings defy all the powers of 
calculation, from the simple copulation of units, 
up to the hidden mysteries of iiuxions ! Way 
one feeble ray of that light of wisdom which 
darts from thy sensorium, straight as the arrow 
of heaven, and bright as the meteor of inspira- 
tion, may it be my portion, so that I may be 
less unworthy of the face and favour of that 
father of proverbs and roaster of maxims, tl at 
antipode of folly, and magnet among the sages, 
the wise and witty Willie Nicol ! Amen! 
Amen ! Yea, so be it ! 

For me I I am a beast, a reptile, and know 
nothing: From the cave of my ignorance, 
amid the fogs of my dulness, and pestilential 
fumes of my political heresies I look up to thee, 
as doth a load through the iron-barred lucerne 
cf a pestiferous dungeon, to the cloudless glory 
of a summer sun ! Sorely sighing in bitterness of 
soul, I say, when shall my name be the quota- 
tion of the wise, and my countenance be the 
delight of the godly, like the illustrious lord of 
Laggan's many hills i* As for him, his works 
are perfect ; never did the pen of calumny blur 
the fair paee of his reputation, cor the bolt cf 
hatred fly at his dwelling. 

Then mirror of purity, when shall the elfine 
lamp of my glimmerous understanding, purged 
from sensual appetites and gross desires, thine 
like the constell lion of thy intellectual powers. 
— As for thee, thy thoughts are pure, and thy 
lips are holy. Never did the unhallowed 
breath of the poweis of darkness, and the 
pleasures of darkness, pollute the sacred flame 
of thy sky-descended and heaven-bound desires ; 
never did the vapours of impurity stain the un- 
clouded serene of thy cerulean imaginaiicn. 
O that like thine were the tenor of my life, 
like thine the tenor of my conversation ! then 
should no friend fear for my strength, no 
enemy rejoice in my weakness ! Then should 1 
lie down and rise up, and none to make me 
afraid. — May thy pity and thy prayer be exer- 
cised for, O thou lamp of wisdom and mirror 
of morality J tby devoted slave, j- 



No. CXXXI. 

TO ME CUNNINGHAM. 

3d March, 1792. 
Since I wrote to'you the last lugubrious sheet, 
I have not had lime to write you farther. 
When I say that I had net time, that, as usu- 
al, means, that the three demons, indolence, 
business, and ennui, have so completely shared 
my hours among them, as not to lejve me a 
live minutes fragment to take up a pen in. 

Ihauk heaven, I feel my spirits buoying up- 
w ards with the renovating year. Now 1 shall 
in good earnest take up Thomson's songs. I 
daresay he thinks I have used him unkindly, and 



* Mr Nicol. 
+ This strain of irony was excited by a lcUcr 
of ,Mr Nico!*^ containing good advice. 



I must own with too much appearance of truth. 
Apropos, do you know the much admired 
old Highland air called The Sutor's Dccklcr t 
It is a first-rate favourite of mine, and I have 
written what I reckon one of my best songs to 
it. I will send it to you as it was sung with 
great applause in some fashionable circles by 
Wajcr Robertson cf Lude, who was here witU 

Thsre is one commission that I must trouble 
you with. I lately lost a valuable seal, a pres- 
ent from a depar;ed friend, which vexes me 
much. I have gotten one of your Highland 
pebbles, which Infancy would make a very de- 
cent one ; and I want to cut my armorial 
bearing cu it ; will you be so obliging as in- 
quire what will be the expense of such a busi- 
ness ? I do not know that my name is matrix 
culated, as the heralds call it, at ail ; but I 



>lii.;J a 



s for 



nself, s 



i kr.< 



shall be chief of the name ; and by courtesy of 
Scotland, will likewise be entitled to support- 
ers. These, however, I do not intend having 
on my seal. I am a bit of a herald ; and shall 
give you, secundum avian, my arms. Ou a 
Held, azure, a holly lush, seeded, proper, in 
base : a shepherd's pipe and crook, salt.er- 
wise, also proper, in cliief. On a wreath of 
the colours, a wood-lark perching on a sprig of 
bay-tree, proper : for crest, two mottoes, round 
ihetopofthe cres\ Wcod-notes wild. At the 
bottom of ihe shield, in the usual place, Bctltr 
a tree buth than ».ae bield. By the shepherd's 
pipe and crook I do not mean the nonsense of 
painters of Arcadia ; but a Stockand Horn, and 
a Cluh, such as \ou see at the head of Allan 
Ramsay, in Allan's quarto edition of the Gen- 
tle Shepherd. By ihe'bye, do you know Allan ? 
He must be a man of very great genius. Why 
is he cot more known ? Has he no patrons ? 
or do " Poverty's cold wind and crushing 
rain beat keen and heavy"' on him? I once, 
and but once, got a glance of that coble edition 
of ihe noblest pastoral in ihe world, and dear as 
it was, I mean dear as to my pocket, I would 
have bought it; but I was told that it was 
printed and engraved for subscribers only. He 
is the only artist who has hit genuine pastoral 
coi-ume. What, my dear Cunningham, is 
there in riches, that they narrow and harden 
the heart so ? 1 think that were I as rich aslke 
sun, I should be as generous as the day ; lut as 
I have no reason to imagine my soul a nobler 
one than any other man's, I must conclude that 
wealth imparts a bird-l.me quality to the pos- 
sessor, at which the man, in his native poverty, 
would have revolted. What has led me to this, is 
the idea of such merit as Wr Allan possesses, and 
such riches as a nabob or governor-contractor 
possesses, and why they do not form a mutual 
league. Let wealth sheller and cherish unpro- 
tected merit, and the gratitude and celebrity of 
that ruerit will richly repay it 



No. CXXXII. 

TO MRS DUN LOP. 

AtiKan Water Feet, 22J August, 17T2. 

l'I I lame me for it, madam— my own cor 
^c, htxeknird and weather-beaten as i'. is 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY 



In watching and reproving my vagaries, fol- 
lies, indolence, &c has continued to blame 
and punish me sufficiently. 

Do you think it possible, my dear and 
honoured friend, that I couid be so lost to gra- 
titude for many favours ; to esteem for much 
•worth, and to the honest, kind, pleasurable tie 
of, now, old acquaintance, and,I hope and am 
sure, of progressive increasing friendship — as, 
for a single cay, not to think of you — to ask 
the Fates what they are doing and about to do 
with my much loved friend and her wide scat- 
tered connexions, and to beg of them to be as 
kind to you and yours as they possibly can ? 

Apropos, (though how it is apropos, I have 
net leisure to explain,) do you know that 1 am 
almost in love with an acquaintance of yours ? 
—Almost ! said I — I am ia love, souse I over 
head and ears, deep as the most unfathomable 
abyss of the boundless ocean ; but the word, 
Love, owing to the intenr.inz<cdoms of the 
good and the bad, the pure and the impure, in 
♦his world, being rather an equivocal term for 
expressing one's sentiments and sensations, I 
must do juaice to the sacred purity of my at- 
tachment. Know then, that the ho?art-struck 
awe, the distant humble approach, the delight 
we should have ia gazing upon and li.-tenir.g 
to a Messenger of Heaven, appearing in all the 
unspotted purity of his celestial home, among 
the coarse, polfuted, far inferior sons of men, 
to deliver to them tidings that make their 
hearts swim in joy, and their imaginations soar 
in transport — such, so delighting, and so pure, 
were the emotions of my soul on meeting the 
other day with -Miss L— B — , your neighbour 

atM . Mr B. with his two daughters, 

accompanied by Mr H. of G. passing through 
Dumfries a few days ago, on their way to 
England, did me the'honour of calling on me ; 
on which I took my horse (though God 
knows I could ill sparethe time), ana"acconi. 
panied them fourteen or fifteen miles, and 
dined and spent the day with them. 'I was 
about nine, I think, when I left them ; and 
riding home, I composed the following ballad, 
of which you will probably think you have a 
dear bargain, as it will cost ytu anothel groat 
of postage. Von must know that there is an 
old ballad beginning with 



'&C 

So Iparcdied it as follows, which is literally 
the first copy, ** unar.otnted unannealed," as 
Hamlet says. — See the poem. 

So much for baliads- I regret that yon are 
gone to the east country, as 1 am to be in Ayr- 
shire in about a fortnight. This world of ours, 
notwithstanding it has many good things in it, 
yet it has ever had this curse, that two or 
three people who would be the happier the 
oftener they met together, are, almost without 
exception, always so placed as never to meet 
but once or twice a-year, which, considering 
the few years of a man's life, is a very great 
"evil under the sun," which I <lo not recol- 
lect that Solomon has mentioned in his cata- 
logue of the miseries of man. I hope and be- 
lieve that there is a state of existence beyond the 
grave, where the worthy of this life v ..'. rer.cw 



"Tell us, ye dead, 
Will none of you in pity disclose the secret 
What 'tis you are, and'we must shortly be !'• 

A thousand times bare I mace this apos* 
trophe to the departed sons of men, but not 
one of theai has ever thought fit to answer the 
question. " O that some courteous ghost 
would blab it out!"— but it cannot be; yon 
and I, my friend, must make the experiment 
by ourselves, and for ourselves. However, 
I am so convinced that an unshaken faith in 
i he doctrines of relig.on is not only necessary, 
by making us be;ter men, but also by making 
us happier men, that I shall take every care 
that your little god-son, and every little crea- 
ture Ihat shall call me father, shall be tauglu 
them. 

So ends this heterogeneous letter, written at 
this wild place of the "world, in the intervals of 
my labour of discharging a vessel of rum from 
Antigua. 



No. exxxm. 

TO MR CUNNINGHAM, . 

Dumfries, lOt/i September, 1792. 
No ! I will not attempt an apology.— Amid all 
my hurry cf business, grind;ng the face of the 
publican and the sinner on the merciless 
wheels of the excise ; making ballads, and then 
crinkinr, and singing them ; and, over and 
above all, the correcting the press-work of two 
different publications ; still, still I might have 
stolen five minutes to dedicate to one of the 
first of my friends and fellow-creatures. I 
might have done, as I do at present, snatched 
an hour near • « witching time of night, "■ — and 
scrawled a page or two. I might have con- 
gratulated my friend on his marriage ; or I 
might have thanked the Caledonian archers 
for the honour they have done me (though to 
cio myself justice, 1 intended to have done 
both in rhyme, else I had done both long ere 
row). Well, then, here is to your good 
health ! fur you must know, I have'set a nip- 
perkin of toddy by me, just by way of spell, 
to keep away the meikle horned Deil, or any of 
his subaltern imps who may be on their nightly 
rounds. 

But what shall I write to you ? "The voice 
said, Cry" and I said,' 1 What shall I cry r" 
— O, thou spirit ! whatever thou art, or 
wherever thou makest thyself visible ! be thou 
a bcgle by the eerie side of an auld thorn, in 
the dreary glen through which the herd callan 
maun bicker in his gloamin route frae the 
faulde! Be thou a brownie, set, at dead of 
night, to thy task by the blazing ingle, or in 
the solitary barn where the repercussions of 
thy iron flail half affright thyself, as thou per- 
formest the work of twenty of the sons of men, 
ere the cock-crowing summon thee to thy aropl* 
cog of substantial brose.— Be (bou a keipie, 
haunting the ford or ferry, in the starless n-ght, 
mixing thy laughing yell with the howling of 
the storm, andlhe roaring of the flcod, as thou 



BURNS LETTERS. 



149 



viewest the perils and miseries of man on the 
foundering horse, or in the tumbling boat! — 
Or, lastly, be thou a ghost, paving thy noctur- 
nal visits to the hoary ruins of decayed gran- 
deur; or performing thy mystic rites in the 
shadow of thy time-worn church, while the 
moon looks, without a cloud, on the silent, 
ghastly dwellings of the dead around thee ; or 
taking thy stand by the bedside of the villain, 
or the murderer, pourtraying on his dreaming 
fancv, pictures, dreadful as the horrors of un- 
veiled hell, and terrible cs the wrath of in- 
censed Deity ! — Come, thou spirit, but not in 
these horrid forms; come with the milder, 
gentle, easy inspirations, v\hich thou breathest 
round the wig of a prating advocate, or the 
tete of a tea-sipping gossip, while their tongues 
run at the light-horse gallop of clishmaelaver 
for ever and ever— come cud assist a poor devil 
who is quite jaded in the attempt to share half 
an idea amot.g half a hundred words ; to till up 
four quarto pages, while he has not got one 
single sentence of recollection, information, or 
remark worth putting pen to paper for. 

I feel, I feel the presence of supernatural as- 
sistance I circled in the embrace of my elbow 
chair, my breast labours, like the bloated Sybil 
on her three-footed stool, and like her too, la- 
bours with Nonsense. — Nonsense, auspicious 
name ! Tutor, friend, and finger-post in the 
mystic mazes of law ; the cadaverous paths of 
phasic ; and particularly in the sightless soar- 
ings of school divinity, who, leaving Common 
Sense confounded at his strength of pinion, 
Reason, delirious with eyeing his giddy flight ; 
and Truth creeping back into the bottom of her 
well, cursing the hour that ever she offered her 
scorned alliance to the wizard power of Iheo- 
logic Vision — raves abroad on all the winds. 
* ' On earth Discord t a gloomy Heaven above, 
opening her jealous gates to the nineteen thou- 
sandth part of the tithe of mankind ! and be- 
low, au inescapable and inexorable hell, ex- 
panding its leviathan jaws fos the vast residue 
of mortals! 1 !" — O doctrine! comfortable 
and healing to the weary, wounded soul of 
man! Ye sons and daughters of affliction, ye 
pauvres miserables, to whom day brings no 
pleasure, and night yields no rest, be com- 
forted ! « 'Tis but one to nineteen hundred 
thousand that your situation will mend ill this 
world ;" so, alas, the experience of the poor 
and the needy too often affirms ; and 'tis I ' 
teen hundred thousand to one, by the do£ 

of that you will be damned 

eternally in the world to come ! 

But of ail Nonsense, Religious Nonsense is 
the most nonsensical ; so enough, and : 
than enough of it. Only, by the bye, 
you, or can vou tell me, my dear Cunuingl 
why a sectarian turn of mind has always a ten- 
dency to narrow and illiberalize the h 
They are orderly ; they may be just ; nay, I 
have known them merciful : but still your chil- 
dren of sanctity move among their fellow-crea- 
tures with a nostril snuffing putrescence, and 
a foot spurning tilth, in bhort, with a conceited 

dignity that your titled 

..... or any other of your Scottish 
lordlings of seven centuries standing, display 
when they accidentally mix among the many- 
aproncd sons of mechanical life. I remember, 
in my plough-boy days, I could not conceive it 
possible that a coble lord could be a foo'., or a 



odly man could be a knave.— How ignorant 
xe plough-boys !— Nay, I have since dis- 
overed that a grdly icoman may be a . . . ! 
— Rut hold— Here's t'ye again— this rum is 
generous- Antigua, so a very unlit menstruum 
tor scandal. 

Apropos, how do you like, I mean really like 
the married life? Ah, my friend! matrimony 
is quite a different thing from what your love- 
sick youths and sighing girls take it to be! 
But marriage, we are told, is appointed by 
God, and 1 shall never quarrel with any of his 
institutions. I am a husband of older stand- 
ing than you, and shall give \ou my ideas 
of the conjugal state — (en passaiit, you know 
I am no Latinist, is not conjugal derived 
from jugum, a yoke ?) Well, then, the scale 
of good w:feship I divide into ten parts. — 
Goodnature, 'bur; Good ser.se, two; Wit, one; 
Personal Charms, viz. a sweet face, eloquent 
eves, line limbs, graceful carriage, (I would 
add a fine waist too, but that is so seen spoilt, 
you know,) all these, one; as for the other 
qualities belonging to, or attending on, a wife, 
such as Fortune, Connexions, Education, (I 
mean education extraordinary, ) Family Blood, 
&c. divide the two remaining degrees among 
them as you please ; only, remember that all 
these minor properties must be expressed by 
fraclums, for there is not any one of them, in 
the aforesaid scale, entitled to the dignity of 
aa integer. 

As for the rest of my fancies and reveries- 
how I lately met with Miss L B , 

the most beautiful, elegant woman in the 
world— how I accompanied her and her 
father's family fifteen miles on their journey, 
out of pure devotion, to admire the loveliness 
of the works of God, in such an unequalled 
display of them — how, in galloping home at 
night, I made a ballad on her, of which these 
two stanzas make a part — 



Thou, bonnie L , art a queen, : 

Thy subjects we before thee; 
Thou, bonnie L , art divine, 

The hearts o' men adore thee. 

The very Beil, he could na scaith 

Whatever « ad belang thee ! 
He'd look into thy bonnie face 

And say, " I canna wrang thee. '' 

—behold all these things are written in the* 
chronicles of my imagination, and shall be 
read by thee, my dear- friend, and by thy be- 
loved spouse, my other dear friend, at a more 

Now to the'', and to thy before-designed 
oosom-coinpanion, be given the precious things 
Lrought forth by the sun, and the precious 
things brought forth by the moon, and the 
benignest influences of the stars, and the living 
streams which flow from the fountains of life, 
and by the tree of life, for eve* and ever J 
Amen] 



i>iA-:o>:r> ca::lxi:t lij;ka:iy. 



No. CXXXIV. 



TO MRS DUNLOP. 

Dumfries, 24tf September, 1793. 
1 have this moment, my dear madam, yours of the 
twenty-third. All your other kind reproaches, 
your news, &c are out of my head when I 

read and think on Mrs H 's situatiou. 

Good God ! a heart-wounded, helpless young 
"woman — in a stranjre, foreign land, and tha 
land, convulsed with every horror that car 
harrow the human feelings— sick — looking 



lor.-! 



mforter 



ih, 



four weeks, 
mined to make me tl 
band. However, if 
as let me have them 



She, too, 



5 deter 






irl, I s 



hal leader of a 
ven will be so obliging 
he proportion of three 
be so much the 
m spared with the 



pleased. 

to show a set of boys that will do honour to 
cares .and name : but I r.m not equal to the 
task of rearing girls. Besides, I am too poor ; 
a girl should always have a fortune Apropos, 
jour little god-son is thriving charmingly, but 
is a very devil. He, though two years 
younger, has completely mastered his brother. 
.Robert is indeed the mildest, gentlest crea- 
■- prising 

■ we get into prattle 
r heart 
God bless you and your 



* This much-lamented lady w 
south of France with her infant s 
died soon after. 



TO MRS DUNLOPV 

SUPPOSED TO HAVE BEEN WRITTEN ON 
THE DEATH OJK AIRS H— , HER DAUGH- 
TER. 

I had been from heme, and did not receive 
your letter until my return the other da v. 
What shall I say to comfort vou, my much- 
valued, much-afflicted friend! I can but 
grieve with yen ; consolation, ! have none to 
offer, except that which religio 



I wish the farmer great joy of his new ac- 
quisition to his family 

1 cannot say that 1 give him joy of his life !»s a 
farmer. 'Tis, as a farmer paying a dear, 
unconscionable rent, a cursed life I As to a 
laird farming his own property"; sowing his 
own corn in hope; and reaping it, in spite of 
brittle -weather, in gladness ; knowing that 
uone can say unto him, "what dost thou?' 
—fattening his herds ; shearing his flocks 
rejoicing at Christmas; and begetting sous am 
daughters, until he be the venerated, grey- 
haired leader of a little tribe— 'tis a heavenly 
life ! but devil take the life of reaping the fruits 
that another must eat. 

Wei!, your kind wishes will be gratified, as 
to seeing me when 1 make my Ayrshire visit. 

I cannot leave Mrs B until her nin< 

months' race is run, which may, perhaps, be it 



hildren of a: 

ther family, they 1 
which they hear, s< 



, of 



-children of affliction I 
siou ! and" like every 

nd feel in a serious, 

ich the world has 
dea. The world 
kes the 



irk, aud proceeds to the next novel oceur- 



Alas, madam ! 
years ? What is 

our joys gradually expire and leave 
night of misery; like the glr 
out the stars out ' 
night, and leaves 
in the howling w; 

I am iiiterrrpted, and must 1 
shall soon hear from me agajnt 



hich blots 

from the face of 

nhcut a ray of comfort, 



No. CXXXYI. 

TO MRS DUNLOP. 

Dumfries, 6th December, J 792. 
I shall be in Ayrshire, I think, next week; 
and if at all possible, I shall certainly, my 
much-esteemed friend, have the pleasure of 
visiting at Dunlop-house. 

Alas, madam ! how seldom do we meet in this 
world, that we have reason to congratulate our- 
selves on accessions of happiness ! I have not 
passed half the ordinary term of an old man's 
life, and yet 1 scarcely lock over the obituary 
of a newspaper, that I do not see some names 
that I have known, and which I, and other 
acquaintances, little thought to meet with 
there so soon. Every other instance of the 
mortality of our kind, makes us cast an anxious 
look into the dreadful abvssof uncertainty, end 
shudder with apprehensions for our own fate. 
Sut of how different an importance are the lives 
of different individuals ? Nay, of what im- 
portance is one period of the same life, more 
than another ? A few years ago, I could have 
lain down in tha dust, *♦' careless of the voice 
of the morning ;" and now, not a few, and 
these most helpless individuals, would, on 
losing me and my exertions, lose both their 
'« strdf and shield." By the way, these 
helpless ones have lately "got an addition ; 
Mrs B. having given me a fine girl since I 
wrote you. There is a charming passage m 
Thomson's Edward and Eiianora, 



nuRNS.-Lr: : i liens. 



As I am got in the -way of quota) ions, I shall 
five you another from (he same piece, pecu- 
liarly", alas, too peculiarly apposite, my dear 
madam, to your present frame of mind : 

«' Who so unworthy but m:y proudly deck 



While Qua:ks of state must each produce his 

plan, 
And even children lisp the Right/, of Man • 
Amid this mighty fuss just let me mention. 
The lligkts of Woman merit some attention. 

First, in the sexes' intermix'd connection, 
One sacred Right of Woman is protection. — 
The tender flower that Kits its head, elate, 
i Helpless, must fall before the blast of f*te, 
! Sunk to the earth, defaced its lovely form, 

your shelter ward th' impending 



The rough winds rage aloud ; when from the 

helm 
This virtue shrinks and in a corner lies, 
Lamenting — Heavens ! if privileged from trial, 
How cheap a thing were virtue '. " 

I do not remember to have heard you men- 
tion 'Ihomsou's dramas. I pick up favourite 
quotations, and store them in my mind as 
ready armour, offensive or defensive, amid 
the struggle of this turbulent existence. Of 
tiiese is one, a very favourite one, from his 
Alfred, 

«« Attach thee firmly to the virtuous deeds 
And offices of life ; to life itself, 
"With all its vain and transient joys, sit 
loose. ' ' 

Probably I have quoted some of these to ycu 
formerly, as indeed when I write from the 
heart, 1 am apt to be gui ty of such repetitions. 
The compass of the heart, in the musical style 
of expression, is much more bounded than that 
of the imagination ; so the notes of the former 
are extremely apt to run into one another ; but 
in return for the paucity of its compass, its 
few notes are much more sweet. 1 must still 
give you another quotation, which lam almost 
ture i have given \ou before, but I cannot re- 
sist the temptation. The subject is religion — 
speaking of its importance to mankind, the 
author says. 



I see you are in for double postage, so I shall 
e'en scribble out t'other sheet. We in this 
country here have many alarms of the reform- 
ing, or rather the republican spirit, of your 
part of the kingdom. Indeed we are a good 
deal in commotion ourselves. For me, 1 am a 
■placeman, you know; a very humble one in- 
deed, Heaven knows, but sail so much so as 
to gag n 
jot 

I have taken up the subject in anothf 
and the other day, for a pretty actress's 
night, I wrote an address, which 1 w 
you on the other page, called The /Jfg/ai* of 



THE RIGHTS OF WOMAN. 



Our second Right — but needless here is 
camion ; 
To keep that right inviolate's the fashion. 
Fach man of sense has it so full before him, 
Iie'J die before he'd wrong it— 'tis decorum. 
'there was, i.'tdeed, in far less polish 'd days. 
A time, when rough rude man had naughty 

Would swagger, swear, get drunk, kick up a 



Now, well-bred men— and you are all well- 
Most justly think (and we are much the 






either spirit, wit, nor i 



For Right the third, our last, our best, our 
That right to fluttering female hearts the 
Which even the Rights of Kings in low pros- 
Most humbly own— %is dear, dear admiration ! 
- '.at bles,'o sphere alone we live and move ; 
e taste that life of lite — immortal love — 
es, glances, sighs, tears, fits, flirtations, 

nst such an host what flinty savage dares 

m awful Beauty joins v, i h* all hei charms, 
> is so rash as r.se in rebel arms ? 

It truce with kings, and truce with con- 

With bloody armaments and revolutions ; 

* ' majesty your first attention summon, 

ca ira I The Majesty of Woman ! 



N». CX5XVIT. 

TO MISS R , OF YORK. 

MADAM, 21s/ March, 17C3. 

Among many things for which I envy those 
hale, long-lived old fellows before the" il< od, 
is this in particular, that when they met 
with any Lo y after their own heart, they had 



J5S 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



A charming long prospect of many, many hap- 
py meetings -with them in after-life. 

Now, in this short, stormy winter day of 
our fleeting existence, when you now and then, 
in the Chapter of Accidents, meet an indivi- 
dual whose acquaintance is a reul acquisition, 
there are ail the probabilities against \ou, that 
jou shail never meet with that valued charac- 
ter more. On the other hand, brief as the 
miserable being is, it is no-e of the least of 
the miseries belonging to it, that if there is any 
miscreant whom ycu hate, or creature whom 
you despise, the ill run of the chances shall be 
so against jou, that in the overtakings, turn- 
ings, andjostiings of life, pop, at some un- 
lucky corner eternal y comes the wretch upon 
you, and will not allow your indignation or 
contempt a moment's repose. As I am a sturdy 
believer in the powers of darkness, I take those 
to be the doings of that old author of mischief, 
the devil. It is well known that he has some 
kind of short-haud way of taking down oer 
thoughts, and I make no doubt that he is per- 
fectly acquainted with my sentiments respect- 
ing Miss JB ; how much I admired her 

abilities, and valued her worth, and how very 
fortunate I thought myself in her acquaintance. 
For this last reason, my dear madam, I must 
entertain no hopes of the" very great pleasure of 
meeting with you again. 

Miss U tells me that she is tending a 

jacket to you, and I beg leave to s;nd y^u the 
inclosed sonnet, though, to tell you the real 
truth, the bonnet is a mere prete'nce, that I 
may have an opportunity of declaring with 
how much respectful esteem 1 have the honour 
to be, to. 



No. CXXXYIIL 
TO MISS C 

MADAM, August, 1793. 

Some rather unlooked-for accidents have pre- 
vented my doing myself the honour of a second 
visit to Arbiegland," as I was so hospitably in. 
vited, and so positively meant to have done. — 
However, I still hope to have that pleasure be- 
fore the busy mouths of harvest begir. 

X inclose you two of my late pieces, as some 
*ind return 'for the pleasure 1 have received in 
perusing a certain MS. volume of poems in the 
possession of Captain Riddel. To repay one 
•with an old song, is a proverb, whose force you, 
madam, I know will not allow. 'What is said 
of illustrious descent is, I believe, equally true 
of a talent for poetry; none ever oe=pised it 
who had pretensions to it. The fates and 
characters of the rhyming tribe often employ 
my thoughts when I am disposed to be melan- 
choly. There is not, among all the martyro- 
logies that ever were penned, so rueful a nar- 
rative as the lives of the poets In the com- 
parative view of wretches, the criterion is not 
♦>hat they are doomed to suffer, but how they 
are formed to bear. Take a being of our kind, 
give him a stronger imagination, and a mere 
delicate sensibility, which between them will 
ever engender a more ungovernable set of pas- 
eions than axe the usual lot of man; implant 



; in him an irresistible impulse to some idle va- 
! gary, such as arranging wild flowers in fan- 
tastical nosegays, tracing the grasshopper to 
, his haunt by his chirping song, watching the 
| frisks of the little minnows in the sunny pool, 

!or hunting after the intrigues of butterflies — 
in short, send him adrift after some pursuit 
which shall eternally mislead him from the 
prnhs oflucre, and yet curse him with a keener 
relish than any man living for the pleasures 
j that lucre can purchase ; lastly, till up the 
'. measure of his woes by bestowing on him a 
; spurning sense of his own dignity, and you 
. have created a wight nearly as miserable as a 
poet. To you, madam, I need not recount the 
| fairy pleasures the muse bestows to counterbal- 
ance this catalogue of evils. Bewitching 
' pcetry is like bewitching woman ; she has in 
! ail ages been accused of misleading mankind 
from the counsels of wisdom and the pa'.iis of 
prudence, involving them in difficulties, bait- 
ing them with poverty, branding ther 



imv, and pluagiii 
lex" of ruin; jet i 
i that all happin< 



iLei 



s the n 



i the whirling 



ss on earth is not worthy 
that even the holy hermit's solitary 
prospect of paradisaical bliss, is but the glitter 
of a northern sun, rising over a frozen region, 
compared with the many pleasures, the name- 
less raptures that we owe to the lovely Queen 
of the heart of Man ! 



No. CXXXIX. 
TO JOHN M'MURDO, Esq. 

SiK, December, 1793, 

It is said that we take the greatest liberties 
with cur greatest friends, and I pay myself a 
very high compliment in the manner in which 
I am going to apply the remark. I have 
owed you money longer than ever 1 owed it to 
any man. — Here is Ker's account, and here 
are sis guineas ; and now, I don't owe a shil- 
ling to man— or woman either. But for lhes» 

dirty, dog's-eared little pages,* I had 

done myself the honour to have waited on you 
long ago. Independent of the obligation* 
your hospitality has laid me under, the con- 
sciousness of your superiority in the rank of 
man and gentleman, of itself was fully as 
much as I could ever make head against ; but 
to owe you money too, was more than 1 could 
face. 

I think I once mentioned something of a col- 
lecrion of Scotch songs I have for some years 
been making: I send you a perusal of what I 
have got together, f could not conveniently 
spare them above five or six days, and live or 
six glances of them will probably more than 
suffice yon. A very few of them are my own. 
When you are tired of them, please leava 
llum with Mr Clint, of the Ring's Arms. 
There is not another copy of the collection in 
the world ; and I shall be sorry that any unfor- 
tunate negligence should deprive me of what 
has cost me a good deal of paias. 

* Scottish hank notes. 



BURKS.— LETTERS. . 



£ am thinking to send my Address to some peri- 
odical publication, but it has not got your 
sanction, so pray look over it. 

As to the Tuesday's play, let me beg of you, 
w? dear madam, let me beg of you to give us, 
The Wonder, a Woman keeps a Secret; to which 
please add, The Spoiled Child— you will high- 
ly oblige me by to doing. 

Ah, what an enviable creature you are 1 
There now, this cursed gloomy blue-devil day, 
you are going to a party of choice spirits— 

" To play the shapes 
Of frolic fancy, and incessant form, 
Those rapid p'ictures, thai assembled train 
Of fleet ideas never join'd beftre, 
Where lively wil excites to gay surprise ; 
Or folly-painting humour, grave himself, 
Calls laughter forth, deep-shaking every 



But as you rfjoice with them that do rejoice, 
do also remember to weep with them that 
weep, and pity your melancholy friend. 



No. CXLL 
TO A LADY, 

IK FAVOUR OF A PLAYER 's BENEFIT. 



You were so very good as to promise me to 
honour my friend with your presence on his 
benetit night. That night is faxed for Friday 
first ; the play a most interesting one. The 
way to keep Him. I have the pleasure to 
know Mr G. well. His merit as an actor is 
generally acknowledged. K-e has genius and 
worth which would do honour to patronage: 
lie is a poor and modest man ; claims v\h:ch, 
from their very silence, have the more forcible 
power on the generous heart. Alas, for pity ! 
that from the indolence of those who have ihe 
good things of this life in their gift, too often 
does brazen-fronted importunity snatch that 
boon, the rightful due of retiring, humble 
want ! Of all the qualities we assign to the 
author ana director of Nature, by far the most 
enviable is to be able "To wipe away ali 
tears from til eyes." O what insignificant, 
sordid wretches are they, however chance may 
have loaded them with wealth, whogotothe;r 
graves, to their magnificent mausoleums, with 
hardly the consciousness of having made one 
poor honest heart happy ! 

But I crave your pardon, madam j I came 
to beg> not to preach. 



EXTRACT OF A Ui'llEU 

TO MR 

1794. 

! I am extremely obliged to you for your kind 
i mention of my interests, in a letter which Mr 

S showed me. At present, my situ- 

I aticn in life must be in a great measure sta- 
tionary, at least for two or three years. The 
statement is this : I am on the supervisor's 
list ; and as we come on there by precedency, 
in two or three years I shall be at the head of 
that list, and be appointed of course ; then a 
friend might be of service to me in getting me 
into a place of the kingdom which I would 
like. A supervisor's income varies from about 
a hundred and twenty,, to two hnndred a-year ; 
but the business is an incessant drudgery, and 
would be nearly a complete bar to every spe- 
cies of literary pursuit. The moment I am 
appointed supervisor in the common routine, 
I may be nominated on the collector's list ; and 
this is always a business purely of political 
patronage. A collectorship varies much, from 
bttter than two hundred a-year to near a thou- 
sand. They also come forward by precedency 
on the list, and have, besides a handsome in- 
come, a life of complete leisure. A life of 
literary leisure, with a decent competence, is 
the summit cf my wishes. It would be the 
prudish afl'ectation of silly pride in me, to say 
that I do not need or would not be indebted to 
a political friend ; at the same time, sir, I by- 
no means lay my affairs before you thus, to 
hook my dependent situation on your benevo- 
lence. If, in my progress of life, an opening 
should occur « here the good offices of a gentle- 
man of your public character and political 
consequence might bring me forward, I vi r " 



peta, 
ud sux 



ilh the same frankness 
y"as I now do myself the honour 
myself, &C 



No. CXLIIL 
TO MRS 



DEAR MADAM, 
I meant to have called on yon yesternight, hut 
as I edged up to your box-door, the first ob- 
ject which greeted my view, was one of those 
lobster-coated puppies, sitting like another 
dragon, guarding the Hesperian fruit. On 
the condit.ons and capitulations you so oblig- 
ingly offer, 1 shall certainly make my weather- 
beaten rustic phiz a part of your box furniture 
on Tuesday, when we may" arrange the busi. 
ness of the visit. 

Among the profusion of idle compliments, 
which insidious craft, cr unmeaning folly in- 
cessantly offer at your shrine — a shrine, hov* 
far exalted above such adoration ! — permit me, 
t but for rarity's sake, to pay you the 



thou nit st amiable, and most e 



dished of 



diamond ca:;i:;et l:: 



TO THE SAME. 

I will vrait on you, niy ever-valued friend, bat 
whether in the'moruiug I am not sure. Sun- 
day clc-e- a period of our c;rst revenue busi- 
ness, and may probably keep me employed 
with my pen until neon. Fine employment 
fcr a poet's pen I There is a species of the 
human genus that I call the gin-korss cs'css: 
■what enviable dogs they are ! Kound, and 
round, and rou:.c they go. Mundell's ox that 
drives his cotton mil!, is their exact prototype 
— without an idea or a wish beyond their cir- 
cle : fat, sleek, stupid, patient, quiet, and con- 
tented ; while here I sit, altogether Ivovero- 

berish, a d melange of fretfulness and 

melancholy ; not enough of the one to rouse 
me to passion, nor of the other to repose me 
in torp. r ; my soul Gounci.:g and fluttering 
round her tenement, like a wild Sneh, caught 
amid the horrors cf winter, and newly thrust 
into a cage. Well, I am persuaded that it was 
of me the Hebrew sage prophesied, when he 
foretold — "And behcid, on whatsoever this 
man doth set his heart, it shall not prosper!" 
If ray resentment is awakened, it is sure to be 
where it dare no: squeak: and if — . . . 



ial wisdom and bits 



re frequent 

R. B. 



TO TEE SAME. 

I have this moment got the song from S , 

and I am sorry to see that he has spoiled it a 
good deal. It shall be a lesson to me how I 
lend him any thing again. 

I have seiit jou Werfcr, Irulj harry to have 
any the smallest opportunity of cbligiug you. 

'Tis true, madam, I saw you once since I 

w's at \Y : and that once froze the 

very life-blood of my heart. Your reception 
of "me was such, that a wretch meeting the 
eye of his judge, about to pronounce sentence 
of death on him, couid only have envied n;y 
feelings and situation. But I hate the theme, 
end never more shall write or speak on it. 

One thing I shall proudly say, tLat I can 

-- Mrs — - a higher tribute of esteem, 

and appreciate her amiable worth more truly, 
than any man whom I have seen approach 
her. 



TO THE SAME. 

I hive often <old you, my dear friend, that 
yon Bad a spice cf caprice in yonr composition, 
»od yon have as often disavowed it, even per- 



l aps while your opinions were, a* the moaiei'.f, 
brefragablj proving it. Couid any fAu^ 
estrange me from a friend sach as yon ? — No i 
I shall have the houour of waiting 



Farewell, thou first of friends, an. J . t,c=> ee- 
:omplished of women ; even wrh all thy little 

laprices ! 



No. CXLYII. 
TO" THE SAME. 



MADAM, 

I return your common-place beck. I !iav* 
perused it with much pleasure, and would have 
continued my criticisms, but as it seems the 
critic has forfeited your esteem, his strictures 
must lose Iheii 

If it is true that • * offences come only from 

the heart, " before you I am guiltless. To 

.rem, and priz 

- s u of w 

— if these are criu 

In a face where I used fo meet the kind com- 
placency cf friendly confidence, now to find 
cold neglect, and contemptuous scorn — is a 
wrench "that my heart can ill bear. It is, 
however, some kind of miserable good luck, 
that while de-kaut-en-haK rigour may depress 
an unoffending wretch to the ground, it has a 
tent'enc_, to rouse a stubborn something in his 
besom, * which, though it cannot heal the 
wounds of his soul, is at least an opiate to 
blunt iher poignancy. 

"Wi.h the profour.dest respect for your abili- 
ties ; the most sincere esteem, and ardent 
regard for your gentle heart and amiable man- 
ners ; and "the most fervent wish and prayer 
for your welfare, peace, and bliss, I have the 
honour to be, madam, year most devoted 
humble sen ant. 



No. CXLVIII. 

TO JOHX SYME, ESQ. 

You know tfcet among other bigb dignifies, 
rou have the honour to be my supreme court 
>f critical judicature, frcm which there is no 
ippeal. I inc'.ose you a song which I c 



the his 



e I saw y 



of : 






n gom; 



: grw 



that I 

and manners ci" those great fo!ks whom I have 
now the honour to call my acquaintances> the 

fair.i'.y, tksr; is r.r'.i'. 'r.g charms me 

mere than ]\Jr O". "s unconcealalle attachment 
to that incomparable woman. Did you ever, 
mv dear Syme, meet with a mau who owed 
more to the Divine Giver of all good things 
than Mr O. ? A fine furtane ; a pleasing 
exterior ; self-evident amiat'.e dispositions, and 
an ingenious upright mind, and that informed 
too, much ttyoiid the usual run of young fel- 
lows of his rank and fortnr.e ; and to all this, 
such a woman '. — Lot cf her I shall say nothing 
at all, in despair cf saying any thisg adequate : 
in my song, I have endeavoured to do justice 



I 



BURN 3. - 

to what wei'.'.d be tits Feelings on seeing, in the 
scene I hive drawn, the habitation of his Lucy. 
As I am a good ileal pleased with ray perform- 
ance, I in ray first fervour thought of sending 

it to Mrs O , but on second thoughts, 

perhaps what I offer as the honest incense of 
genuine respect, might, from the well-known 
character of poverty and poetry, be construed 
into some modification or other of that secviihy 
which my soul abhors. * 



No. CXLIX. 
TO MISS . 

MADAM, 
Nothing short of a kind of absolute necessity 
could have made me trouble you with ibis let- 
ter. Escept my ardent and just e=teem for 
yoorr- - 

you, 

the friend of my soul, and his amhible connex- 
ions 1 The wrench at :ny heart to think that 
he is gone, for ever gone fiom me, never more 
to meet in the wanderings of a weary world ; 
and the cutting refl-ction of all, that I had 
most unfortunately, though most undeservedly, 
lost the confidence of that soul of worth, ere it 
took its flight • 

These, madam, are sensations of no ordinary- 
anguish. However, you, also, inr.y be offend- 
ed with some imputed improprieties of mine ; 
sensibility you know I possess, and sincerity 
none will deny me. 

To oppose those prejudices which have been 
raised against me. is nut the business of this 
letter. Indeed it is a warfare I know not how 
to wage. The powers of positive vice I can 
in some degree calculate, r.nd against direct 
malevolence lean be on my guard; but who 
can estimate the fatuity of giddy caprice, or 
ward off the unthinking mischief of precipitate 
folly ? * 

I hive a favour to request cf you, madam, 

and of your sister Mrs , through your 

means. You know, that, at the wish of my 
late friend, I made a collection of all m\ trifle's 
in verse which I had ever written. They are 
many of thsm local, some of them puerile ai;d 
silly, and all of them unfit for the public eye. 
As I have some little fame at stake, a fame 
that I trust may live, when the hate of those 
who "watch for my halting,'' and the con- 
tumelious sneer of those whom accident has 
made my superiors, will, with themselves, be 
gone to the regions of oblivion ; I am uneasy 
now for the fate of those manuscripts. Will 

M f3 have the goodness to destroy 

them, or return them to me ? As a pledge of 
friendship they were bestowed ; and lhat cir- 
cumstance, indeed, was all their merit. Most 
unhappily for me, that merit they no longer 

posses, and I hope that Mrs ' B goodness, 

which I well know, and ever will revere, will 



*- The song inclosed was the one beginning 
" wat je wha's in yon town. " 



IB whom she or.ee 
1 have the honour 



No. CL. 
TO MR CUNNINGHAM. 

25i/i February, ]r04. 
O.nst (lion minister to a mind diseased ? 
Canst thou speak peace and rest to a soul tossed 
on a tea of troubles, without one friendly star 
to guide hsr course, and dreading that the next 
surge may overwhelm her ? Canst thou give to 
a frame tremblingly alive to the tortures ot 
suspense, the stability and hardihood of the 
rock that braves the blast ? If thou canst not 
do the least of these, why wouldst thou dis- 
turb me in my miseries, with tbv inquiries after 
me ? 

For these two months I heve not been able to 
lift a pen. My constitution and frame were, 
ab ertgme, blasted with a deep incurable taint 
of hypochondria, which poisons my exstenee. 
Of late a number of domestic vexations, and 
some pecuniary share in the ruin cf these ' 

times ; losses which, though trifling, were yet 
what I could ill bear, have so irritated me, 
that my feelings at times could only be envied 
by e reprobate spirit listening to the seutenca 
that dooms ii to perdition. 
' Are you deep in the language of consolation ? 
I na\e exhausted in reflection every topic of 
comfort. A lieart at ease would have been 
charmed with my sentiments and reasonings ; 
but as to myself, I was like Judas Iscnriot 
preaching the gospel : he might melt and mould 
the hearts of those around him, but bis own 
kep' its na-ive incorrigibility. 

Still there are two great pillars that bear us 
up, ara : d the wreck oi misfortune and misery. 
Th? one is composed of the different modifica- 
tions of a certain noble, stubborn something in 
man, known by then .mes of courage, fortitude, 
magnanimity. The other is made up of those 
feelings and sentiments, which, however ths 
sceptic may deny them, or the enthusiast dis- 
figure them, are yet, I am convinced, original 
and component parts of the human sou! ; those 
tenses of the mind, if I may be allowed the ex- 
pression, which connect us with, and link us 
to. those awful obscure realities — an all-power- 
ful and equailv beneticent Cod ; and a world to 
come, beyonddeatli and the grave. The first 
gives the nerve of combat, while a ray of hope 
beams on the field ; — the last pours the balm of 
comfort into the wounds which time can never 

i do not remember, my dear Cunningham, 
that you and I ever talked on the subject of 
religion at all. I know some who laugh at it, 
as the trick of the crafty Jar, to lead the ua- 
diseerning many, or at most as an uncertain 
obscurity, which mankind eau never know any 
tiling of, and with which (hey are fools if they 
give themselves much to do. Nor would I 
quarrel with a man for his irrelig'on, nny more 
than I would for bis want of a musical ear. I 
would regret that be was shut out from what, 



156 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



to me and to others were such superlative 
sources of enjoyment. It is in this point of 
view, and for this reason, that I will deeply 
imbue the mind of every child of mine with 
religion. If my son shou.d happen to be a man 
cf feeling, sentiment, and taste, I shall thus 
add largely to his enjoyments. Let me flatter 
myself that this sweet little fellow who is just 
now running about my desk, will be a man of 
a melting, ardent, glowing heart : and an im- 
agination, delighted with the painter, and wrapt 
with the poet. Let me figure him, wandering 
out in a sweet evening, to inhale the balmy 
gales, and enjoy the growing luxuriance of the 
spring; himself the while in the blooming 
youth of life, lie looks abroad on all nature, 
and through nature up to nature's God. His 
soul, by swift, delighting degrees, is wrapt 
above lii.'s sublunary sphere, until he can be 
silent no longer, ana bursts out into the glori- 
ous enthusiasm of Thomsonj 

' ■ These, as they change, Almighty Father, 
these 
Are but the varied God. The rolling year 
Is full of thee." 

And so on, in all the spirit and ardour of that 
charming hymn. 

These are no ideal pleasures ; they are real 
delights, and I abk what of the delights among 
the sons of men are superior, not to say, equal 
lo them ? And they have this precious, vast 
addition, that conscious virtue stamps them 
for her own ; and lays hold on them to bring 
herself into the presence of a witnessing, judg- 
ing, and approving God. 



MADAM, 
I dare say this is the first epistle you ever re- 
ceived from this nether world. 1 write jou 
from the regions of Hell, amid the horrors of 
the damned. The time and manner of my 
leaving your earth I do not exactly know ; as 
I took my departure in the he-t of a fever of 
intoxication, contracted at yo'jr too hospitable 
mansion ; but on my arrival here, I was fairly 
tried and sentenced to endure the purgatorial 
tortures of this infernal confine, for the space 
of niuety-uine years, eleven months, and 
twenty-nine days ; and all on account of the 
impropriety of my conduct yesternight under 
your roof. " Here am I, laid on a bed of pitiless 
furze, with my aching head reclined on a pil- 
low of ever- piercing thorn, while an infernal 
tormentor, wrinkled, and old, and cruel, his 
name I think is Recollection, with a whip of 
scorpions, forbids peace or rest to approach me, 
and keeps anguish eternally awake. Still, 
madam, if I could in any measure be reinstated 
in the good opinion of the fair circle whom my 
conduct last night »o much injured, I think it 
Would be an alleviation to my torments. For 



this reason I trouble you with this letter. To 
the men of the company I will make no apo- 
logy.—Your husband, who insisted on my 
drinking more than I chose, has no right to 
Llame me ; and the other gentlemen were par- 
takers of my guilt. But to you, madam, I 
have much to apologize. Your good opinion 
I valued as one of die greatest acquisitions I 
had made on earth, and I was truly a beast to 

forfeit it. There was a Miss I too, a 

woman of fine sense, gentle and unassuming 
manners— do make, on my part, a miserable 
d— d wretch's best apology to her. A Airs 

G , a charming woman, did me the honour 

to be prejudiced in my favour ; this makes me 
hope that 1 have not outraged her beyond all 
forgiveness.— To all the other ladies please 
present my humblest contrition for my conduct, 
and my petition for their gracious pardon. O, 
all ye powers of decency and decorum '. whis- 
per to them that my errors, though great, were 
involuntary — that an intoxicated man is the 
vilest of beasts — that it was not in my nature 
to be brutal to any one — that to be rude to a 
woman, when in my senses, was impossible 
with me — but — 

Regret ! Remorse 1 Shame ! ye three hell- 
hounds that e^er dog mj steps and bay at my 
heels, spare me ! spare me ! 

Forgive the olt'euces. and pity the perdition 
of, madam, your humble slave. 



TO MRS DUNLOP. 

15th DecembiT, 1795. 

MY DEAR FF.IE>"D, 
As I am in a complete Deeemberiih humour, 
gloomy, sullen, stupid, as even the deity of 
Dulness herself could wish, I shall not drawl 
out a heavy letter with a number of heavier 
apologies, for my late silence. Only one I 
shall mention, because I know you will sym- 
pathize in it : these four mouths, a sweet little 
giri, my youngest child, has been so ill, that 
every day, a week or less threatened to termi- 
nate her existence. There had much need be 
many pleasures annexed to the states of hus. 
band and father, for God knows, they have 
many peculiar cares. I cannot describe to you 
the anxious, sleepless hours these ties frequent- 
ly give me. I see a train of helpless, little 
folks; me and my exertions al their stay: 
and on what a brittle thread does the life of 
man hang ! If I am nipt off at the command 
of fate ; ever, in all the vigour of manhood as 
I am, such things happen every day —gracious 
God! what viould become of my little flock! 

'Tis here that I envy your people of fortune. 

AfatLer on his death-ted, taking an everlasting 
leave of his children, has indeed woe enough ; 
but the man of competent fortune leaves his 
sons and daughters independency and friends ; 
while I— but I shall run distracted if I think 
any longer on the subject ! 

To leave talking of the matter so gravely » I 
shall sing with the old Scots ballad- 






BURNS LETTERS. 



m 



•• O that I liad ne'er been married, 
I would never bad nae care ; 

Now I've gotten wife and bairns, 
Taej cry, crowdie, everuiair. 

Crowdie! ance ; crowdie! twice; 

Crowdie ! three times in a day : 
An ye crowdie ony mair, 

Ve'li crowdiea'my meal away." 



December 2ith. 
We have had a brilliant theatre here, this 
season ; ouly, as all other business has, it ex- 
periences a stagnation of trade from the epide- 
mical complaint of the country, want of cash.. 
I mention our theatre merely to lug in an oc- 
casional Address, which I wrote for the benefit- 
night of one of the actresses, and which is as 
follows : — 



ADDRESS. 



So, sought a Poet, roosted near the skies, 
Told him, I came to feast my curious eyes, 
Said, nothing like bis works was ever print- 
ed ; 
And last, my prologue-business slily hinted. — 
"Ma'am, let me tell you," quoth my man of 

"I know your bent — these are no laughing 

Can you- but Miss, I own I have my fears, 
Dissolve in pause — and sentimental tears — 
With laden sighs, and solemn rounded seu- 

Rouse from his sluggish slumbers fell Repent- 
Paint Vrngrance as he takes his horrid stand, 
Waving on high the desolating brand, 
Calling the storms to bear him o er a guilty 
land!" 

I couid no more — askance the creature eye- 

D'ye think, said I, this fuce was made for cry- 

I'll laugh, that's poz — nay, more, the world 

shall know it ; 
And so, your servant—gloomy Master Poet. 

Firm as my creed, sirs, 'tis my fixed belief, 
That Misery's another word for Grief: 
I also think—so may I be a bride ! 
That so much laughter, so much life en- 
joyed. 

Thou man of crazy care and ceiseless sigh, 
Still under bleak misfortune's blasting eye; 
Doom'it to that sorest task of man alive— 
'lo make thr-e guineas do the work of live : 
Laugh in Misfortune's face— the beldam 

witch ! 
Say, you'll be merry, though you can't be 



Thou other man of care, the wretch in love, 
Who long with jiltish arts and airs ha^i 

Who, as the boughs all temptingly project, 
Measur'st in desperate thought— a rope — thy 

ueck — 
Or, where the beetling cliff o'erhangs the 

Peerest to meditate the healing leap : 
Wouldstthou be cured, thou silly, moping elf, 
Laugh at her follies — laugh e'en at thyself: 
Learn to despise those frowns now so terrific, 
And love a kinder— that's your grand spe- 
cific— 



Thi-- 



my r 



eept i 



) lie; 



they are sincere ! that blessings may attend 
your steps, and affliction know you not! In 
the charming words of my favourite author, 
The Man of Feeling, "May the great Spirit 
bear up the weight of thy gray hairs ; and 
biunt the arrow that brings them rest!" 

Now that I talk of authors, how do you 
like Cowper ? is not the Tatk a glorious poem ? 
The religion of the Task, bating a few scraps 
of Calvinistic divinity, is the religion of God 
and Nature: the religion that exalts, that en- 
nobles a man. Were not you to send me your 
Zeluco in return for mine ? Tell me how you 
like my marks and notes through the book. I 
would not give a farthing for a book, unless 
I were at liberty to blot it with my criti- 

I have lately collected, for a friend's perusal, 
all my letters ; I mean those which I first 
sketched, in a rough draught, and afterwards 
wrote out fair. On looking over some old 
musty papers, which from time to time I had 
parcelled by, as trash that were scarce worth 
preserving, and which yet, at the same time, I 
did not care to destroy, I discovered many of 
those rude sketches, and have written, and am 
writing them out, in a bound MS. for my 
friend's library. As I wrote always to you 
the rhapsody of the moment, 1 cannot find a 
single scroll to you, except one, about the 
commencement of our acquaintance. If there 
were any possible conveyance, I would send 
you a perusal of my book. 



TO MRS DUHLOP, IN LONDON. 

Dumfries, 201k December, 1795. 
I have been prodigiously disappointed in thii 
London journey of yours. In the first place, 
when your last to me reached Dumfries, I was 
in the country, and did not return until too 
late to answer your letter; in the next place, 
I thought yon would certainly take this route ; 
and now I know not what is become of you, 
or whether this may reach you at ali. God 
grant that it may fine" you and yours In pros- 
pering health and good spirits. Do let ro# 
henr from \o;i the soonest possible, 



153 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



As I hope to get a frank froui my friend 
Captain Miller, I shall, every leisure hour, 
take up the pen, and gossip away whatever 
comes first, prose cr poesy, sermon or song. 
In this last article, I have abounded of late. 
I have often mentioned to you a superb publi- 
cation of Scottish songs which is making its 
appearance in your great metropolis, and w here 
I have the honour to preside over the Scottish 
verse, as no less a personage than Peter P.n- 
dard.es over the English. I wrote the fol- 
lowing for a favourite air 

December 29. 
Since I began this letter I have been appointed 



l in the capacity of supervise. 

'" "' e load of tusine 



what with that busi; 

could scarcely have commanded ten minutes to 
have spoken to you, had you been in town, 
much less to have written you an epistle. 
This appointment is only temporary, and dur- 
ing the illness of the present incumbent ; but 
I look forward to an early period when I shall 
be appointed in full form ; a consummation 
devoutly to be wished! My political sins 
seem to be forgiven me. 

This is the season r New-year 's day is now my 
date) of wishing ! and mine are most fervently 
ofi'ered up for you! May life to you be a 
positive blessing while it iusts, for your own 
sake ; and that it may yet be greatly prolonged, 
is my wish for my own sake, and for the sake 
of the rest of year friends '. V»~La: a transient 
business is life ! Very lately I was a boy ; 
but t'other day I was a young man ; and I 
already begin to feel the ri^id fibre and stiflen- 
ing joints of old age coming fast o'er my frame. 
"With all my foilk's of youth, and, I fear, a Jew 
Tices of manhood, still I congratulate royseif 
on having had, in early days, religion strongly 
impressed on my mind. 1 have nothing to say 
to any one as to which sect he belongs to, or 
what'ereed he believes ; but I look on the man 
who is firmly persuaded of infinite wisdom and 
goodness, superintending and directing every 
circumstance that can happen in his lct-I 
felicitate such a man as having a solid founda- 
tion for his mental enjoyment ; a firm prop and 
sure stay, in the hour of difficulty, trouble, and 
distress ; and a never-faiiing anchor of hope, 
when he looks beyond the grave. 

Jannary 12. 

You will have seen oi;r worthy and ingenious 
friend, the Doctor, long ere this*- I hope he 
is well, and beg to be remembered to him. I 
have just been reading over again, I dare say, 
for the hundred and fiftieth tune, his View vf 
Sc<i?ly a-.d Manners J end still I read it with 
delight. His humour is perfectly orgiual — it 
is neither the humour of Addison, nor Swift, 
lior Sterne, ncr of any body but I)r Mcore. 
By the bye, you have deprived me cf Zeiuco ; 
remember that, when you are disposed to rake 
ud the sins cf my neglect from among the athes 
of laziness. 

tie has paid me a pretty compliment, by 



No. CLIV. 

TO MRS . 

20JA January, 1790. 
I cannot express my gratitude to yon for 
alkwing me a longer perusal of Anachartig. 
In fact. I never met with a book that bewitched 
me so much ; and I, as a member of the librarv, 
must warmly feel the obligation you have laid 
ns under. Indeed to me the obligation i? 
stronger than to any other individual cf our 
society; as Anacharsis is an indispensable de- 
sideratum to a son of the muses. 

The health you wished me in vcur morn- 
ing's card, is, I think, flown from me fjr 
ever. I have not been able to leave my bed 
to-day, till about an hour age. These wick- 
edly unlucky advertisements I lent (I did 
wrong) to a friend, and I am ill able to go iu 
quest of him. 

The muses have not quite forsaken me. 
The following detached stanzas I intend to 
interweave in some disastrous tale of a shep- 
herd. 



No. CLV. 

TO MRS DUNLCP. 

SI./ Janucrj, 17£o. 
These many months ycu have been two pack- 
ets in my debt — what sin of ignorance I have 
committed against so highly valued a hiend, I 
am utterly at a loss to gue=s. Aiss ! madam, 
ill can I afford at this time, to be deprived of 
any of the small remnant of my pleasures. I 
have lately drunk deep of (he cup of affliction, 
.bbed me of my only daughter 
that at a distance too, 
. ly, as to put it out of my power to 
pay the last duties to her. I Lad scarcely be- 
gun to recover from that shock, when I became 
myself the victim of a most severe rheumatic 
fever, and long the die spun doubtful ; until, 
after many weeks of a "sick beJ it seems to 
have turned up life, and ! am beginning to 
crawl across my rccm, and once indeed have 
been before mv own door in the street. 



and darling child, and that a 



When pleasure fas-cinaies '.he mental sigh', 

Aif.iction puriiies the visual rar, 
Religion hails the drear, the untried night, 

That shuts, for ever shuts, life's doubtful 
day. 



No. CLVI. 
TO MRS R , 

WHO HAD CESIREO HIJl TO GO TO THE 
BIRTH-DAY ASSEMBLY OX 2 HAT DA * 
TO SHOW HIS LOYALTY. 

4;A June, 17 9:;. 
I am in such miserable health as to le mt.-rly 
incapable of showing my loyalty in any -,.;-.t. 



B EIRN Si. —LETTERS. 



Racked as I am with rheumatisms, I meet 
every face with a greeting Ike that of Baiak to 
Balaam — *' Come, curse me Jacob ; and come, 
defy me Israel 1 " So say I, Come, curse me 
that east wind ; and come, defy me the north ! 
Would you have me, in such circumstances, to 
copy you out a lo\e song ? 

I may perhaps see you on Saturday, hut I 

will not b« at the ball. " Why should I ? « ' inati 
delights not me, nor woman either '." Can you 
bupply me with the song, Let us aU be unJiappy 
lordlier 1 Do, if ) ou can, and oblige te pauvre 
titfserable R. B. 



TO ME CUNNINGHAM. 

Brow, Sea-bathing Quarters, 7 th July, 17S6. 
MS D?AR COTEKIWGHAM, 

I received yours here this moment, and am 
indeed highly flattered with the approbation of 
the literary circle you mention ; a literary cir- 
cle inferior to none in the two kingdoms. 
Aias! my friend, I fear the voce of the bard 
will soon be heard among you no mere ! For 
these eight or ten months I have bsen ailing, 
sometimes bedfast and eoaie times not ! but 
lhe=e last three months I have been tortured 
with an excruciating rheumatism, which has 
reduced me to nearly the last stnge. You ac- 
tually would not know me if ycu saw me. 
Pale, emaciated, and so feeble as occasionally 
to nee.i heiu from my chair — my spirits fled ! 
fled ! — but I can no more on the subject ; only 
the medical folks tell me that my last and cniy 
chance is bathing and country quarters, and 
riding. The deuce of the matter is this ; when 
an exciseman is oft duty, his salary is reduced 
to L.35 instead of L.50. What way, in the 
name of thrift, shall 1 maintain myself and 
keep ahorse in counirv quarters, with a w" 
and live children at home, on L.35 ? I m« 
lion liiis, because I had intended to teg y< 
utmost interest, and that of all the friends y 
can muster, to move cur Commissioners of 
Excite to grant me the full salary. I dan 
you know them all personally. If they do 
grant it me, I must lay my account will 
exit truly en poete ; if I die not of disease, I 
must perish with hunger. 

I have sent you one of the songs ; the othe 
my memory does not serve me with, and I have 
no copy here ; but I shall be at home soon, 
when 1 will seud it you. Apropos to being at 
home, Mrs Burns threatens in a week or two 
to add one more to my paternal charge, which, 
if of the right gender, I intend shall be in- 
troduced to the world by the respectable desig- 
nation of Alcxarjder Cunningham Bums : 
JUy last vas James Gleaeuim ; to ycu cau 



objection to the eoinpaay gf Debility. 



TO MRS BURNS. 
SIT DEADEST LOVE, Brew, Thursday. 
I delayed writing until I could tell yoa what 
effect sea-bathing was likely to produce. It 
would be injustice to deny that ii has eased 
my pains, and I think has strengthened me ; 
but my appetite is still extremely bad. No 
flesh nor fish can I swallow ; porridge and 
milk are the only thing I can taste. I am very 
happy to hear by Miss Jess Lewars, that you 
aie welL My very best and kiudest compli- 
ments to her and to all the children. I will 
see you on Sunday. Your afiecuonate hus- 
band. R» B. 



TO MRS CUNLOP. 
MADAM, \2thJuly, 179G. 

I have written you so often, without receiving 
any answer, that I would not trouble you again, 
but for the circumstances in which I am. An 
illness which has long hung about me, in all 
probability will speeaiiy send me beyond that 
tonne whence ;;o traveller returns. Your 
friendship, with which for many years you 
honoured me, was a friendship dearest to my 
sou':. Your conversation, and especially your 
correspondence, were at once highly entertain- 
ing and instructive. With what pleasure did 
I use to break up the seal 1 The remembrance 
yet adds one pulse more to my poor palpitating 
heart. Farewell!!! 

R. B. 



The above is supposed to be the last produc- 
tion of Robert Burns, who died on the 21st cf 
the month, nine days afterwards. He had, 
however, the pleasure cf receiving a satisfac- 
tory explanation of his friend's silence, and an 
assurance cf the continuance of her friendship 
to his widow and children : an assurance that 
has teen amply fulfilled. 

It is probable that the greater part of her 
letters to him were destroyed by our bard about 
the time that this last was written. He did 
not foresee that his own letters to her were to 
appear in print, r.oi conceive the disappoint- 
ment that will be felt, that a few of this excel- 
lent lady's have not served to enrich and adora 
the collection. 



THE POEMS 



ROBERTBURN& 



NOBLEMEN AND GENTLEMEN 



CALEDONIAN HUNT. 






MY LOKD3 .a-ITO GENTLEMEN* 
A Scottish Bard, proud of the name, and 
whose highest ambition is to sing in his 
Country 's service — where shall he so properly 
look for patronage as to the illustrious names 
of his native Land ; those who bear the hon- 
ours and inherit the virtues of their Ancestors ? 
The Poetic Genim of rm Country found me, 
as the prophetic bar! Elijah did Elisha — at 
the plough ; and threw her inspiring mantle 



s, the 



She bade me sing the loves 
rural scenes and rural plea 
oil, i 



If 



my wild, artless notes, as she inspired — She 
whispered me to come to this ancient Me- 
tropolis of Caledonia, and lay my songs under 
your honoured protection : I now obey her dic- 
tates. 

Though much indebted to your goodness, I 
Jo net approach you, my Lords and Gentle- 
men, in the usual style of dedication, to thank 
you for past favours ; that pa'h is so hackneyed 
by prostituted learning, that honest rusticity is 
ashamed of .t. .Nor do I present this Address 
with the venal soul of a servile Author, look- 
ing for a continuation of those favours : I was 
bred to the Plough, and am independent. I 
come to claim the common Scottish name with 
you, my illustrious Countrymen ; and to tell 
the world that I glory in the title. I come to 
•oagratulate my Country, that the blood of her 



f nncient heroes still runs uncontaminated ; and 
that from your courage, knowledge, and public 

j spirit, she may expect protection, wealth, and 
liberty. In the last place, I come to proffer 
/v>y warmest wishes to the Great Fountain of 
Honour, the Monarch of the Universe, for 
your welfare and happiness. 

"When you go fori to awaken the Echoes, 
in the ancient and favourite amusement of 
your forefathers, may PJeasure ever be of your 
party ; and may social joy await your return : 
When harassed in courts or camps with the 
jostlings of bad men and bad measures, may 
the honest consciousness of injured worth 
attend your return to your native Seats ; and 
may Domestic Happiness, with a smiling wel- 
come, meet you at your gates '. May corruption 
shrink at your kindling indignant glance; and 
may tyranny in the Ruler, and licentiousness 
in the People, equally find you an inexorable 
foe! 

I have the honour to be, 

With the sincerest gratitude, 
and highest respect, 

My Lords and Gentlemen, 
Your most devoted humble servant, 

ROBERT BUCX9. 



POEMS, 
CHIEFLY SCOTTISH. 



THE TWA DOGS : 



' Twas in that place o' Scotland's isle, 
That bears the name o' Auld King Coil, 
Upon a bonnie day in June, 
"When wearing thro' the afternoon, 
Twa dogs that were na thrang at hame, 
Forgather'd ance upon a time. 

The first I'll name they ca'd him Ccesar, 
Was keepit for his Honour's pleasure ; 
His hair, his size, his month, his lags, 
Show'd he was nane o' Scotland's dogs ; 
But whalpit some place far abroad, 
Where sailors gang to fish for cod. 

His locked, letter *d, braw brass collar 
Show'd him the gentleman and scholar : 
But tho' he was o' high degree, 
The fient a pride.na pride had he ; 
But wad hae spent an hour caressin', 
Ev'u with a tinkler gipsey's messin'. 
At kirk or market, mill or smiddie, 
Nae tawted tyke, tho' e'er sae duddie, 
But he wad stan't, as glad to see him, 
And stroan't on stanes an' hillocks wi' him. 

The tither was a ploughman's collie, 
A rhyming, ranting, raving billie, 
Wha for his friend an' comrade had him, 
And in his freaks had Luath ca'd him, 
After some dog in Highland sang,* 
Was made lang syne— Lord knows how lang. 

He was a gash an' faithfu' tyke, 
As ever lap a sheugh or dyke. 
His honest, sonsie, bawsent face, 
Aye gat him friends in ilka place. 
His breast was white, his towzie back 
Weel clad wi' coat o' glossy black ; 
His gawcie tail, wi' upward curl, 
Hung o'er his hurdies wi' a swurL 

Nae doubt but they were fain o' ither, 
An' unco pack an' thick thegither ; 
Wi' social nose whyles snun'd and snowkit ; 
Whyles mice and moudieworts they howkit ; 



f CuchulliVs dog iu Ossian's Fingal. 



Whyles sccurM awa in lang excursion. 
An' worry 'd ither in diversion; 
Until wi damn weary grown. 
Upon a knowe they sat them down, 
And there began a lang digression, 
About the lords o' the creation. 



I've aften wonder 'd, honest Luath, 
What sort o' life poor dogs like you havej 
An' when the gentry's life I saw, 
What way poor bodies liv'd ava. 

Our Laird gets in his racked rents, 
His coals, his kain, and a' his stents : 
He rises when he likes himseP ; 
His ilunkies answer at the bell ; 
He ca's his coach, he ca's his horse ; 
He draws a bonnie siiken purse, 
As lang's my tail, whare, thro' the steeka. 
The yellow letter 'd Geordie keeks. 

Frae morn to e'en its nought but toiling, 
At baking, roasting, frying, boiling; 
An' tho' the gentry first are stechin', 
Yet ev'n the ha' folk fill their pechan 
Wi' sauce, ragouts, and sic like trashtrie, 
That's little short o' downright wastrie. 
Our Whipper-in, wee blastit wonner, 
Poor worthless elf, it eats a dinner, 
Better than ony tenant man 
His Honour has in a' the Ian' : 
An' what poor cot-folk pit their painoh in, 
I own its past my comprehension. 

LUATH. 

Trowth, Cassar, whyles they're fashi 

A cotter howkin in a sheugh, 

Wi' dirty stanes biggin a dyke, 

Baring a quarry, and sic like, 

HimseP, a wife, he thus sustains, 

A sm^trie o' wee duddie weans, 

An' nought but his han' darg, to keep 

Them right and tight in thack an' rape. 

An' when they meet wi' sair disasters, 
Like loss o' health, or want o' masters, 
Ye maist wad think, a wee touch langer, 
\n' they maun starve o' cauld an' hunger 5 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



But, how it comes, I never kenn'd yet, 
They 're maistly wonderf u ' contented ; 
An' buirdly chiels, an' clever hizzies, 
Are bred in such a way as this is. 



But then to see how ye 're negleckit, 
How huff'd, and cuff'd, and disrespeeki< I 
L— d, man, our gentry care as little 
For delvers, ditchers, and sic cattle ; 
They gang as saucy by poor folk, 
As I wad by a stinking brock. 

I've notio'd on onr Laird's court day, 
An' mony a time my heart's been wae, 
Poor tenant bodies, scant o' cash, 
How they maun thole a factor's snpsh ; 
He'll stamp an' threaten, curse an' swear, 
He'll apprehend them, poind their gear ; 
While they maunstan', wi' aspect humble 
An' hear it a', an' fear an' tremble 1 



They're nae sae wretched 's ane wad think ; 
Tho' constantly on poortith's brink : 
They're sae accustom'd wi' the sight, 
The'view o't gies them little fright. 

Then chance an' fortune are sae guided, 
They're *ye in less or mair provided ; 
An' tho' fatigued wi' close employment, 
A blink o' rest's a sweet enjoyment. 

The dearest comfort o' their lives, 
fheir grushie weans and faithfu' wives ; 
The prattlin things are just their pride 
That sweetens a' their hre-side. 

An' whyles twalpennie worth o' nappy 
Can mak the bodies uuco happy ; 
Thev lay aside their private cares, 
To mind the Kirk and State affairs : 
They'll talk o' patronage and priests, 
Wi 1 kindling fury in their breasts, 
Or tell what new'taxation's comin', 
And ferlie at the folk in Lon'on. 

As bleak-fac'd Hallowmas returns, 
They get the jovial, rantin' kirns, 
When rural life, o' every station, 
L'nite in common recreation : 
Love blinks, Wit slaps, an' social Mirth, 
Forgets there's Care upo' the earth. 

That merry day the year begins, 
They bar the door on frosty winds ; 
The nappy reeks wi' maiiiiing ream 
An ' sheds a heart-inspiring steam ; 
The luntin' pipe, and sneeshin' mill, 
Are handed round wi' right guid will : ' 
The cantie auld folks crackin' crouse, 
The young ones rantin' thro' the house, — 
My heart has been sae fain to see them, 
That I for joy hae barkit wi ' them. 

Still it's owre true that ye hae said, 
Sic game is now owre aften play'd. 



Are riven ontbaith root and branch, 
Some rascal's pridefu' ^reed to quench, 
Wha thinks to knit himself the fa ? ter 

n favours wi' some gentle master, 
Wha aiblins thrang. a-parliamentin'j 
For Britain's guid his 6aul indentin' — 

CffiSAR. 

Ilaiih, lad, ye little ken about it : 
For Britain's "zuid '—guid faith, I doub. it ! 
■ Say, rather, gaun as Premiers lead hiro, 
An' saying aye or no's they bid him : 
At operas an' plays parading, 
Mortgaging, gambling, masquerading ; 
" may Le, in a frolic daft, 
To Hague or Calais takes a waft, 
mak a tour, and tak a whirl, 
To learn bon ten and see the warl'. 

There, at Vienna, or Versailles, 
le rives his father's auld entails ! 

Or by Madrid he takes the rout, 

To thrum guitar's and fecht wi' nowt ; 

Or down Italian vista startles, 

Wh— re-hunting among groves o' myrtles : 
en bouses drumly German water, 
mak himsel' look fair and fatter, 
' clear the consequential sorrows, 

Love gifts of Carnival Signora's. 

For Britain's guid .' — for her destruction ! 

" x "' dissipation, feud, an' factioj. 

Ll'ATH. 

ech man ! dear sirs : is that the gate 
j waste sae mony a braw estate I 
we sae foughten an' harass'd 
For gear to gang that gate at last ! 

would they stay aback frae courts, 
. ' please themselves wi' counira sports, 
wad for every ane be better, 
The Laird, the Tenant, an' the Cotler ! 
For thae frank, rantin', ramblin' biilies, 
Fient haet o' them 's ill hearted fellows ; 
Except fcr breakin' o' their timtner, 
" speakin' liphtly o' their limmer, 
shootin' o' a hare or moor-cock, 
The ne'er a bit they're ill to poor folk. 

But will ye tell me, Master Ccesar, 
5ure great folk's life's a life o' pleasure I 
Vae cauld or hunger ere can steer them, 
The very thought o't need na fear them. 

CiESAR. 
_d, man, were ye but whyles where 
am, 
The gentles ye wad ne'er envy them. 

's true, they need na starve or sweat, 
j' winter's canld or simmer's heat; 
y've nae sair wark to craze their banes, 
fill auld age wi' gripes sn' granes : 
But human bodies are sic foois, 

a' their colleges an' schools, 
That when nae real ills perplex them. 
They mak enow themselves to vex them. 
An' aye the less they hae to sturt them, 
In like proportion less will hurt them, 
A country fellow at the pleugh, 
s acres till'd, he's right eneugh j 



BURNS — POEMS. 



A country girl at her wheel, 

Her dizzeus done, she's unco weel ; 

But Gentlemen, an' Ladies warst, 

Wi' ev'ndown warn o' waxk are curst. 

They loiter, lounging, lank, an' lazy ; 

Tho' deil haet ails them, yet uneasy ; 

Their days insipid, dull, an' tasteless ; 

Their nights unquiet, lang, an' restless ; 

An' ev'n their sports, their balls, an' races,. 

Their gallopiu' through public places. 

There's sic parade, sic pomp, an' art, 

The joy can scarcely reach the heart. 

The men cast out in party matches, 

Then sowther a' in deep debauches : 

Ae night they're mad wi' drink an' whoring, 

Neist day their life is past enduring. 

The ladies arm-in-arm in clusters, 

As great and gracious a' as sisters ; 

But hear their absent thoughts o' ilher, 

They're a' run deils an' jads thegither. 

Whyles o'er the wee bit cup an plaitie, 

They sip the scandal potion pretty ; 

Or lee lang nights, wi' crabbit leuks 

Pore owre the devil's pictured beuks ; 

Stake on a chance a farmer's stackyard, 

An' cheat like ony unhang'd blackguard. 



By this the sun was out o' sight : 
An' darker gloaming brought the night : 
The bum-clock humm'd wi' lazy drone ; 
The kye stood rowtin' i' the loan : 
When up they gat an shook their lugs, 
Rejoiced they were na men but dogs ; 
And each took aff his several way, 
Resolved to meet some ither day. 



SCOTCH DRINK. 



Cie him strong drink, until he wink, 
That's sinking in despair ; 

An' liquor guid to fire his bluid, 
That's prest wi' grief an' care ; 

There let him bouse, and deep carouse 
Wi' bumpers flowing o'er, 

Till he forgets his loves or debts, 
An' minds his griefs no more. 

Solomon's Proverbs, xxxi. 6, ' 



Let other poets raise a fracas, 

'Bout vines, and wines, and drunken Bacchus, 

An' crabbit names an* stories wrack us, 

An* grate our lug, 
I sing the juice Scots bear can mak us, 

In glass or jug. 

O Thou, my Muse t guid auld Scotch Drink ; 
Whether thro' wimpling worms tbou jink, 
Or, richly brown, ream o'er the brink, 

In glorious faein, 
Inspire me, till I lisp and wink, 

To sing thy name. 



An' Pease and Beans at e'en or morn, 
Perfume the plain, 

Leeze me on thee, John Barleycorn, 
Thou king o grain 1 

On thee aft Scotland chows her cood, 
In souple scones, the wale o' food ! 
Or tumblin' in the boiling flood, 

Wi' kail an' beef; 
But when thou pours thy strong heart's blood, 

There thou shines chief. 

Food fills the wame, an' keeps us livin' ; 
Tho' life's a gift no worth receivin'. 
When heavy dragg'd wi' pine and grievin' ; 

But oil'd by thee, 
The wheels o' life gae down-hill, scrievin', 

Wi' rattlin' glee. 

Thou clears the head o' djited Lear ; 
Thou cheers the heart o' drooping Care 
Thou strings the nerves o' Labour sair 

Afs weary toil ; 
Thou even brightens dark Despair 

Wi' gloomy smile. 

Aft, clad in massy silver weed, 
Wi' Gentles thou erects thy head ; 
Yet humbly kind in time o' need, 

The poor man's wine, 
His wee diap parritch, or his bread, 

Thou kitchens fine. 

Thou art the life o' public haunts : 
But thee, what were our fairs and rants ? 
Ev'n godly meetings o' the saunts, 
By thee inspired, 
When gaping they besiege the tents, 
Are doubly fired. 

That merry night we get the corn in, 
O sweetly then thou reams the horn in I 
Or reekin' on a New-year mornin' 

In cog or bicker, 
An' just a wee drapsp 'ritual burn in, 

An' gusty sucker ! 

When Vulcan gies his bellows breath, 
An' ploughmen gather wi' their graith, 
O rare '. to see the fizz an' freath 

I' the lugget caup ! 
Then Burnexcin* comes on like death 

At ev 'ry chap. 

Nae mercy, then, for airn or steel ; 
The brawnie, bainie, ploughman chiel', 
Brings hard owrehip, wi' sturdy wheel, 

The strong forehammer, 
Till block an* studdie ring and reel 

Wi' dinsome clamour. 

When skirlin weanies see the light, 
Thou maks the gossips clatter bright. 
How fumbhn' cuifs their dearies slight, 

Wae worth the name ! 
Nae howdie gets a social night, 

Or plack frae them. 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



How easy can the barley bree 

Cement the quarrel ; 

It's aye the cheapest lawyer's fee, 

To taste the barrel. 



Ala>e ! that e'er my Muse has reason, 
To wyte her countrymen wi' treason ; 
But rnonj daily weet their weason 

Wi* lquors nice, 
An' hardly, in a winter's seasoD, 

E'er spier her price. 



Wae worth that brandy, burning trash, 
Fell source o' inonie a pain an' Lra h ! 
Twins raonie a poor, dovlt, drunken hash, 

O' half his days; 
An' sends, beside, auld Scotland's cash 

To her warst faes. 



Ye Scots, wha wish auld Scotland v 
Ye, chief, to you my tale" I tell, 
Poor plackless devils like mysel' ! 

It sets you ill, 
Wi' litter, dearthfu' wines to mell, 
Or foreign gill. 



May gravels round his blather wrench, 
An' gouts torment him inch by inch, 
Wha twists his gruutle wi " a gluuch 

O' sour disdain, 
Out owre a glass o' whisky punch 

Wi' honest men. 



O Whisky ! soul o' plays an pranks ! 
Accept a Bardie's humble thanks ! 
When wanting thee, what tuneless crank: 

Are my poor verses ! 
Thou comes — they rattle i' their ranks 

At ither's a—s ! 



Thee, Ferintosh J sadly lost ! 
Scotland, lament frae coast to coast! 
Now colic grips, an barkin' hoast, 

May kill us a' ; 

For loyal Forbes' charter' d boast 

Is ta'enawa'l 



Thae curst horse leeches o' th' Excise, 
Wha mak the Whisky Stalls their prize ! 
Haud up thy ban', Deil ! ance, twice, thrice ! 



Fortune ! if thou'll but gie me still 
Hale breeks, a scone, an' Whisky S iU, 
An' rowth o' rh\me to rave at will, 

Tak a' the rest, 
An' deal't about as thy blind skill 

Directs thee best. 



THE AUTHOR'S 

EARNEST CRY AND PRAYER* 

TO THE 

SCOTCH REPRESENTATIVES 

IX THE 

HOUSE OF COMMONS. 



Dearest of Distillation ! last and best 

How art thou lost ! 

Parody on Mili<ru 



Ye Irish Lords, ye Knights an' Squires, 
Wha represent our brughs an' shires, 
And doucely manage our affairs 

In parliament, 
To you a simple Poet's prayers 

Are humbly sent. 



An' like to brust . 

Tell (hem wha hae the chief direction, 
Scotla7id an' me's in great affliction, 
E'er sin' they laid that cursed restriction 

On Aq-aviloe ; 
An' rouse them up to strong conviction 
An' move their pity. 



Does ony great n 
Speak out, an' ne^ 
Let posts a 



Wi ' them wha grant 'en 
If honestly they carina come, 

Far better want 'em. 

In gath'ring votes ye were na slack ; 
Now stand as tightly by your tack ; 
Ne'er ciaw your lug, an'* huge your back, 



Paint Scotland greeting owre her (bristle; 
Her mutchkin stoup as toom's a whistle, 
An' d d Excisemen in a bustle, 



Triumphant crushin't like * mi 

Or lainpit shell. 



mussel, 



* This was wriflen before the act r.nent the 
Scotch Distilleries, of session 178G; for whi;i 
Scotland and the Auihcr return their mc-st 

grateful thanks. 



BURNS.— POEMS. 



167 



Then on the tither hand present her, 
A blackguard Smuggler right behiut her, 
An' cheek- for-chow, a chuffie Yir.tner, 

Colleaguingjoiu, 
Picking her pouch as bare as winter 
Of a' kind coin. 

Is there, that bears the name o' Scot, 
But feels his heart's bluid rising hot, 
To see his poor auld .Milher's pot 

Thus dung in staves, 
An' piuuder'd o ner hindmost groat 

By gallows knaves ? 

Alas ! I'm but a nameless wight, 
TTode i' the mire out o' sight ! 
But could I like $loni*omeries fight, 

Or gab like Bosweli, 
There's some sark-necks I wad draw tight, 

An' tie some hose well. 

God bless your Honours, can ye see't, 
The kind, auld, cantie Carlin greet, 
An' no get warmly to your feet, 

An' gar them hear it, 
An' tell them wi' a patriot heat. 

Ye wiana bear it ! 

Some o' you nicely ken the laws, 
To round the period an' pause, 
An' wi' rhetorio clause on clause 

To mak harangues : 
Then echo thro' St Stephen's wa's 

Auld Scotland's wrangs. 

Dempster, a true blue Scot I'se warran ; 
Thee, aith-detesting, chaste KUkerran ;* 
An' that glib gabbet Highland Baron, 

The Laird o' Graham ;f 
An' ane, a chap that's damn'd auldfarran, 
Dundas his name. 

Er shine, a spunkie Norland billie ; 
True Campbells, Frederick an' Hag ; 
An' Livingstone, the bauld S;> Willie ; 

An' inony ithers, 
Whom auld Demosthenes or Tully 

Might own for brithers. 

Arouse, my boys ! exert your mettle, 
To get auld Scotland back her kettle ; 
Or faith ! I'll wad my new pleugh-petlle, 

Ye '11 see't or !ang, 
She'll teach you, wi' a reekin' whittle, 
Anither sang. 

This while she's been in cank'rous mood, 
Her lost Militia fired her bluid ; 
(Oeil ua they never mair do guid, 

Play'd her that pliskie !) 
An' now she's like to'rin red-wud 

About her Whisky. 

An' L— d if ance the-, pit her till't, 
Her tartan petticoat she'll kilt, 
An' durk an' pistol at her belt, 

She'll tak the street.-, 
An' rin her whittle to the hiit, 

I* the first she meets ! 



For G— d sake, Sirs ! then speak ber fair, 
\.n' straik her cannie wi' the hair, 
An' to the muckle house repair, 

Wi' instant speed* 
An' strive wi' a' your wit an lear. 
To get remead. 

Yon ill tongued tinkler, Charlie Fox t 
May taunt you wi' his jeers an' mocks ; 
But gie him't het, my hearty cocks ! 

E'en cowe the caddie! 
An' send him to his dicing box 

An' sportin' lady. 

Tell yon guid bluid o' auld Boconnock's, 
I'll be his debt twa mashlum bannocks, 
An' drink his health in auld Nome Tinncdc's* 

If he some scheme, like tea an' winnocks, 
Wad kindly seek. 

Could he some commvtatio}i broach, 
I'll pledge my aith in guid braid Scotch, 
He need na fear their foul reproach 

Nor erudition, 
Yon rnixtie-maxtie queer hotch-potch, 

The Coalition. 

Auld Scotland has a raucle tongue ; 
She's just a deevil wi' a rung ; 
An' if she promise auld or young 

To tak their part, 



i' now, ye chosen Five-and- Forty, 
May still your Milher's heart support ye : 
Then, tho' a Minister grow dorty, 

An' kick your place, 
Ye'll snap ycur fingers, poor an' hearty, 

Before his face. 



In spite o' a' the thievish kaes 

That haunt Sf Jamie'? 

Your humble poet sings an' prays 

While Rob his name u 



POSTSCRIPT. 

Let half-starved slaves, in warmer skies, 
See future wines, rich clustering rise ; 
Their lot auld Scotland ne'er envies, 

But blithe and frisky, 
she eyes her freeborn martial bovs, 

Tak afF their W"bisky. 

What tho' their Phcebus kinder warms, 
While fragrance blooms and beauty charms t 
When wretches range, in famish'd swarms, 

The scented groves, 
Or hounded forth dishonour amis 

In hungry droves. 



* Sir Adam Ferguson. 

f The present Duke of Montrose 



* A worthy old Hostes3 of the Author's i 
ifauchline, whe-e he sometimes studied Politic 
- (1S0O.) ' over a glass of guid auld Scotch Drink, 



Their bauldest thought' 
To sta 

Till skelp— a shot— they' 
To si 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 

i han* ring: swither 



s aff, a' throwther, 



But brin? a Scotsman frae his Iii.l, 
Clap in his cheek a Highland gill, 
Say, such is royal George's will, 

An ' there's the foe, 
He has nae thought but how to kill 

'iwa at a blow. 

Nae cauld, faint-hearted doubting;, te 
Death comes, with fearless eve he sees 
Wi' bluidy hand a welcome gies h'.m ; 

An' when he fa's, 
His latest draught o' breathin' lea'es 

I' faint huzzas. 



Sages their solem 



may steek, 



An' physically causes seek, 

But teil me WTi'sky's name in Greek, ' 
I'll tell the reason. 

Sco!la7id, my auld, respected Mither ! 
Tho' vshvlesye inoistify your leather, 
Till whore you sit, on craps o' heather, 
Ye tine your dam ; 

(Freedom and Whisky ganj- ih^gither I) 



Tak aii yoi 



THE HOLY FAIR.* 



A robe of seeming truth and trust 

Hid crafty Observation ; 
And secret hung with poison'd crust, 

The dirk of Defamation : 
A mask that like the gorget show'd 

Dye-varying on the pigeon ; 
And for .-. mantle large and bread, 

He wrapt him in Religion. 

Hypocrisy-a-la-mode. 



Upon a simmer Sunday morn, 

When Nature's face was fair, 
I walked fonh to view the corn, 

An' snuff the caiisr air. 
The rising sun owre Galston muirs, 

Wi' glorious light was glintin', 
The hares were birpling down the furs, 

The lav'rocks they were chautiu' 
Fu' sweet that day. 



As lightsoraely I glow 
To see a scene sae g; 

Three hizzies, early a 
Cam skelping up the 



II. 



' do: 



d abroad 

he road, 
ay; 

black, 



Fu' guy that day. 



The Iwa appear'd like sisters Iwiu, 
In feature, form, an' claes : 

Their visage wither'd, lang, an' thinj 
An' sour as ony slaes ; 



The third 


j — ~— , 

ame up, hap-sta 


p-an'-leap, 


As light 


as ony laminie. 




An' wi' a 


curchie low d.d 


toop. 


As soon as e'er she saw 






Fu' kind 


that day. 




IV. 




Wi' bannet aff, quoth I, ' 


Sweet lass 


I think 3 


e seem to ken m 






've seen that boi 




But yet 


[ eauna name ye 




Quo' she, 


an' laughin' as 


he spak, 


An' tak' 


s me by the banc 


s, 


" Ye, for 


my sake, ha'e g 


'en the fee 


Ofa'th 








A screed s 


ome day. 






"My name is Fun— your cronie dear, 

The nearest friend ye ha'e j 
An' this is Superstition here, 

An' that's HypoeHsy. 
I'm gauu to Holy Fair, 

To spend an hour in dattin' ; 
Gin ye'l) go there, yon runkled pair 

V\ e w ill get famous laugh in' 

At them this day. " 

VI. 

Quoth I, ■ With a' my heart I'll do't; 

I'll get my Sunday 's sark on, 
An' meet you on the holy spot ; 

Faith, we'se hae fine remarkin'!' 
Then I gaed hame at crowdie time, 

An' scon I made me ready ; 
For roads were clad, frae side to side, 

Wi' monie a weary bodie, 

In droves that day. 

VII. 

Here farmers gash, in ridin' graith 

Gaed hoddin by their cotters : 
There swankies young, in braw braid claitb 

Are springiu' o'er the gutters. 
The lasses skelpin' barefoot, thrang, 

In silks an' scarlets glitter ; 
Wi' sweet-milk cheese in monie a whang 

Au'faris baked wi' butter, 

Fu' crump that day. 

VIII. 

When by the plate we set our nose, 

Weel heaped up wi' ha'pence, 
A greedy glowr Biack Boin.et throws, 



On ev'ry side they're gatheriu', 
Some carrying deals, some chairs an' s 
An' some are busy bletherin', 

Right loud that day. 



Here stand 




a fend the show'rs, 


An' screen our co 


intra Gentry, 


There race 


■ Jess, an 


' twa three whoresj 


Are blin 


rin' at ih 


3 entry. 


Here sits a 


raw of ti 




Wi' heavin' breast and bars neck. 


An' there a 


batch of 


wabster ladsj 



BURNS.-POEMS 



Blackguardia' frae K. 



For fun this day. 



Here some are thinkin' on their sins, 

An' some upo' their claes ! 
Ane curses feet that fyled his shins, 

Anither sighs an' prays : 
On this hand sits a chosen swatch, 

Wi' screw'd-up grace-proud faces ; 
On that a set o' chaps at watch, 

Thrang winkin' on the lasses 

To chairs that day. 

XI. 

O happy is the man an' blest ! 

Nae wonder that it pride him ! 
Wha's ain dear lass, that he likes best, 

Comes clinkin' down beside him ! 
Wi' arm reposed on the chair-back, 

He sweetly does compose him ! 
Which, by degrees, slips round her neck, 

An's loof upon her bosom 

Unkena'd that day. 

XII. 

Now a' the congregation o'er 

Is silent expectation ; 
For speels the holy door 

Wi' tidings o* damnation. 
Shculd Hornie, as in ancient days, 

'Mang sons o' God present him, 
The vera sight o' 's face, 

To's ain het hame had sent him 

Wi' fright that day. 

XIII. 

Hear how he clears the points o' faith 

Wi' rattlin' an' wi' thumpin' .' 
Now meekly calm, now wild in wralh, 

He's stampin' an' he's jumpiu' ! 
His lengthened chin, his turned-up snout, 

His eldritch squeel and gestures, 
Oh, how tbey fire the heart devout, 

Like cantharidian plasters 



On s 



a day ! 



XIV. 

But hark ! the tent has changed its voice ; 

There's peace and rest nae langer; 
For a' the real judges rise, 

They canna sit for anger. 
opens out his cauld harangues 

On practice and on morals ; 
An' affthe godly pour in thrangs, 

To gie the jars an' barrels 

A lift that day. 

XV. 

What signifies his barren shine 

Of moral powers and reason ? 
His English style, an' gesture fine, 

Are a' clean out o' season. 
Like Socrates or Antoninc, 

Or some auld pagan Heathen, 
The moral man he does define, 

But ne'er a word o' faith in 

That's right that day. 

XVI. 

In guid time comes an antidote 
Against sic poison'd nostrum : 

For , frae the water-fit, 

Ascends the holy rostrum s. •" * 



See, up he's got the word o' Cod, 
An' meek an' mim has viewed it, 

While Common-Sense hasta'en the road, 
Ail' aff, an' up the Cowgate,* 

Fast, fast that day. 

XVII. 

Wee neist the guard relieves* 

An' orthodoxy raibles, 
Tho' in his heart he weel believes 

And thinks it auld wives' fables : 
But, faiih, the birkie wants a manse 

So cannily be hums them ; 
Altho' his carnal wit and sense, 

Like haffiins-wajs o'ercomes him 
At times that day. 

XVIII. 

Now but an' ben, the change-house fills, 

Wi' yill-caup commentators : 
Here's crying out for bakes and gills, 

And there the pint stoup clatters ; 
While thick au' thrang, an* loud an' lang, 

Wi' logic, an' wi' Scripture, 
They raise a din, that in the end, 

Is like to breed a rupture 

O' wrath that day. 

XLX. 

Leeze me on drink ! it gi'es us mair 

Than either School or College 
It kindles wit, it waukens lair, 

It pings us fou o' knowledge. 
Be't whisky gill, or penny wheep, 

Or ony stronger potion, 
It never fails on drinking deep, 

To kittle up our notion 

By night or day. 

XX. 

The lads an' lasses, biythely bent 

To mind baith saul and body, 
Sit round the table weel content, 

An' steer about the toddy. 
On this ane's dress, an' that ane's leuk, 

They're makin' observations; 
While some are cozie i* the lieuk, 

An' forming assignations 

To meet some day. 



But n 

Till a' the hills are rairin', 
An' echoes back return the shouts 

His piercing v. ords, like Highland sword9 
Divide the joints an' marrow ; 

His talk o' Hell, where devils dwell, 
Our very saul does harrow + 

Wi' fright that day 

XXII. 

A vast, unbottom'd boundless pit, 
Filled fou o' lowin' brunstane, 

Wha's ragin' flame and scorchin' heat, 
Wad melt the hardest whun-staae ! 

The half asleep start up wi' fear, 
And think they hear it roarin', 

When presently it does appear, 



*A street so called, which faces the lertl 

a 

Shakspeare's llamlet. 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



XXIII. 

'Twad be owre lang a tale to tell 

How mony stories past, 
An' how they crowded to the yill, 

When they were a' dismist : 
How drink gaed round, in cogs an' caups, 

Amang the furnis an' benches ; 
An* cheese an' bread, frae women's laps, 

Was dealt about in lunches 

An' dawds that day. 

XXIV. 

In comes a gaucie, gash guidwife, 

An' sits down by the fire, 
Syne draws her kebbuck an' her knife, 

The lasses they are shyer. 
The auldguidmen, about the grace, 

Frae side to side they bother, 
Till some ane by his bonnet lays 

And gi'es them't like a tether, 

Fu' lang that day. 

XXV. 

Waesucks ! for him that gets nae lass, 

Or lasses that hae naething • 
Sma' need has he to say a grace 

Or nielvie his braw cluithing ! 
O wives be mindfu' ance yoursel* 

How bonnie lads ye wanted, 
An' dinna for a kebbuck hee), 

Let lasses be affronted 

On sic a day. 

XXVI. 

Now CliukumbeU, wi' rattlin' tow, 

Begins to jow an' croon ; 
Some swagger hame, the best they dow. 

Some wait the afternoon. 
At slaps the billies halt a blink, 

Till lasses strip their shoon : 
Wi' faith, an' hope, an' love, an' drink, 

They're a' in famous tune, 

For crack that day. 

XXVII. 

How monie hearts this day converts 

O' sinners and o' lasses ! 
Their hearts o' stane, gin night, are gane 

As saft as ony flesh is. 
There's some are fou o' love divine ; 

There's some are fou o' brandy : 
An' mony jobs that day begin, 

Mav end in houghmagandie 

Some ither day. 



DEATH AND DOCTOR HORNBOOK. 

A TRUE STORY. 

Some books are lies frae end to end, 
And some great lies were never penn'd, 
Ev'n Ministers, they hae been kenn'd, 

In holy rapture, 
A rousing whid, at times, to vend, 

And nail't wi' Scripture. 



i Is just as true's the Deil's in hell 

Or Dublin city: 

That e'er he nearer comes oursel* 

'Samucklepity. 

The Clachan yill hod made me canty, 

I was na fou, but just had plenty ; 

I stacher'd whyles, but yet took lent aye 

To free the ditches ; 
An' hillocks, stanes, an' bushes, kenn'd aye 

Frae ghaists an' witches. 

Tho rising moon began to g^ow'r 
The distant Cumnock hills out-owre ; 
:ount her horns, wi* a' my pow'r, 

I set mysel' ; 
But w hether she had three or four, 

I couldna tell. 

is come round about the hill, 
And todlin down on WiLie's mill, 
Setting my staff wi' a* my skill, 

To keep me sicker ; 
Tho' leeward whyles, against my wiU, 

I took a bicker. 

ere wi' ivmethinz did forgather, 
That put me in an eerie s wither : 
* * awfu' scythe, out-owre ae shouther, 
Clear-dangling, haDg ; 
A three-taed leister on the ither, 

Lay, large an' lang. 

Its stature seem'd lang Scotch ells twa, 
The queerest shape that e'er I saw, , 
For lient a wame it had ava ; 

And then, its shanks, 
They were as thin, as sharp, an' sma' 

As cheeks o' branks. 



« Guid e 



' quo' I ; « Friend ! hae ye been 



But naething spak : 
At length, says I, * Friend, where ye gaun, 
Will ye go back ? ' 

It spak right howe,— 6 My name is Death, 
But be na fley'd. '—Quoth I, ' Guid faith, 
:e maybe come to stap my breath ; 
But tent me, billie ; 
I red ye wee! tak care o' skailh, 

See there's a gully ! ' 

* Gutdman,' quo' he, ' put up your whittle, 
I'm no desisn'd to try its mettle ; 
But if I did, I wad be kittle 

To be mislear'd, 
I wad na mind it, no, that spittle 

Out owre my beard,' 






1 Weel, weel !* 6ays I, ' a bargaii 
Come, gie's your hand, an' sae we 
We'll ease our shanks an' tak a sea 

Come gie's your r 
This while f ye hae been mony a 

At mony £ 



be'i 



a house". ' 



Bui '.bis that I am gaun to tell, 
Which lately on a night befell, 



* This rencounter happened in seed-time, 
1785. 

f An epidemical fever was then raging in 
that countrv. 




dps 



I ^L ffi 



BURNS. —POEMS. 



* Ayi a J>' au0 ' ^ e » an ' shook bis head, 

• Its e'en a lang, lang time indeed 
Sin' I began to nick the thread, 

An ' choke the breath : 
Folk maun do something for their bread, 
An' sae maun Deaih. 

' Sas thousand years are near hand fled, 

Sin' I was to the hutching bred, 

An' mony a scheme in vain's been laid, 

To stap or scar me ; 
Till ane Horabook's* ta'en up the trade, 

An' faith he'll waur me. 

« Ye ken Jock Hornbook i' the Clachan, 
Deil mak his king's hood in a spleuchan ! 
He's grown sae weel acquaint wi' Bachanf 

An' ither chaps, 
The weans haud out their fingers laughin' 

An' pouk my hips. 

• See, here's a scythe, and there's a dart, 
They hae pierced mony a gallant heart : 
But Doctor Hornbook, wi' his art 

And cursed skill, 
Has made them baith no worth a f— t, 

Damn'd haet they'll kill. 

• 'Twas but yestreen, nae farther gane, 
I threw a noble throw at ane ; 

Wi' less, I'm sure, I've hundreds slain ; 

But deil-ma-care, 
It just played dirl on the bane, 

But did nae mair. 

' Hornbook was by, wi' ready art, 
And had sae fortified the part, 
That when I looked to my dart, 

It was sae blunt, 
Fient haet o't wad hae pierced the heart 

Of a kail runt. 

' I drew my scythe in sic a fury, 
I nearhaud coupit wi' my hurry, 
But yet the bauld Apothecary 

Withstood the shock ; 
I might as weel hae tried a quarry 

O' hard whin rock. 

' Even thera he canna get attended, 
Altbo' their face he ne'er had kend it, 
Just in a kail-blade, and send it, 

As soon's he smells't, 
Baith their disease, and what will mend it, 

At ance he tells't. 

' An' then a' doctors' saws and whittles, 
Of a' dimensions, shapes, an' mettles, 
A' kinds o' boxes, mugs, an' bottles, 



Aqua-fontis, what you please, 

He can content ye. 

* Forbye some new, uncommon weapons, 

Urinus spiritus of capons ; 

Or mite- horn shavings, tilings, scrapings ; 

Distilled per ee ; 
Sal-alkali o' midge-tail clippins, 

An' mony mae. 

« Waes me for Johnnie Ged's Hole I now ;' 
Quo' I, ■ If that the news be true ! ' 
His braw calf-ward where gowans grew, 

Sae white an' bonnie, 
Nae doubt they'll rive it wi' the plough ; 

They'll ruin Johnnie ! ' 

The creature grained an eldritch laugh, 
An' says, 4 Ye needna yoke the pleugh, 
Kirk-yards will soon be tilled eneugh, 

Tak ye nae fear ; 
They'll a' be trenched wi' mony a sheugh 

In twa-three year, 

' Whare I killed ane a fair strae death, 
By loss o' blood or want o' breath, 
This night I'm free to tak my aith, 

That Hornbook's skill 
Has clad a score i' their last claith, 

By drap an' pill. 

' An honest Wabster to his trade, 

Whase wife's twa nieves were scarce wool bred, 

Gat tippence-worth to mend her bead, 

When it was sair ; 
The wife slade cannie to her bed, 

But ne'er spak mair. 

■ A countra Laird had ta'en the batts, 
Or some curmurring in his guts, 
His only son for Hornbook sets, 

An* pays him well ; 
The lad, for twa givd gimmer pets, 

Was laird himsel*. 

' A bonnie lass, ye ken her name, 
Some ill-brewn drink had hoved her wame ; 
She trusts hersel', to hide the shame, 
In Hornbook's care ; 



' That's just a swatch o' Hornbook's way ; 
Thus goes he on from day to day. 
Thus dues he poison, kill, an' slay, 

An's weel paid for't : 
Yet stops me o' my lanfu' prey, 

Wi' his damu'd dirt. 

' But hai k ! I'il tell you of a plot, 
Though dinua ye be speaking o't ; 
"" lail the self-conceited sot, 

As dead's a herrin' ; 
Neist time we meet, I'll wad a groat, 

He gets his fairiu' J* 



* This gentleman, Dr Hornbook, is, v 
fessionally, a brother of the Sovereign Order of 
the Ferula j bui by intuition and inspiration, 
is at once an Apothecary, Surgeon, and Phy- 
fician. 

f Buchan's Domestic Medicine, 



J The grave-digger. 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



Some wee short hour ayont the heal, 

Which raised us haith ; 

I took the way that pleased mvsel', 
And sae did 'D.alh. 



THE BRIGS OF AYR: 

A PO£M. 

Inscribed to J. B , Esq. Air. 

The simple Bard, rough at the rustic plough, 
Learning his tuneful trade from every bough ; 
The chanting linnet, or the mellow thrush, 
Hailing the setting sun, sweet, in the green 

thorn bush : 
The soaring lark, the perching redbreast 

shrill, 
Or deep-toned plovers, grey, wild whistling 

o'er the bill; 
Shall he, nursed in the Peasant's lowly shed, 
To hardy independence bravely bred, 
By early Poverty to hardship steel'd, 
And train 'd to arms in stern Misfortune's 

field— 
Shall he be guilty of their hireling crimes, 
The servile, mercenary Swiss of rhymes ? 
Or labour hard the panegyric close, 
With all the venal soul of dedicating Prose ? 
No! though his artless strains he rudely 

sings, 
And throws his hand uncouthly o'er the 

strings. 
He glows with all the spirit of the Bard, 
Fame, honest fame, his great, his dear re- 
ward. 
Still, if some Patron's generous care he trace, 
Skill'd in the secret, to bestow with grace ; 

When B befriends his humble name, 

And hands the rustic stranger up to fame, 
With heart-felt throbs his grateful bosom 

swells, 
The godlike bliss, togive, alone excels. 



'Twas when the stacks get on their winter 

And thack and rape secure the toil-won crap ; 
Potatoe bings are snugged ua frae skai:h 
Of coming Winter's biting, frosty breath ; 
The bees rejoicing o'er their simmer toils, 
Unnumber'd buds an' flowers' delicious spoils, 
Seal 'd uo with frugal care in massive waxen 

piies, 
Are doom'd by man, that tyrant o'er the 

The death o' devils, smoor'd wi' brimstone 

The thundering guns are heard on every side, 
The wounded coveys, reeling, scatter wide ; 
Thefeather'd field'-mates, bound by Nature's 



Sires, 
(Whai 
And 



nor hi 



, children, in one carnage lie : 

poetic heart, but in'y tleeds, 

man's savage, ruthless deeds !) 

the flower in field 01 meadow 



Nae mair the grove wi' airy concert rings, 
Except, perhaps, the Robin's whistling glee, 
Proud o' the height o' some bit half-lang 



The hoary mc 
Mild, calm, s 

blaze, 
While thick the gossamor waves wantoa in 

the rays. 
"Twas in that season, when a simple bard, 
Unknown and poor, simplicity's reward, 
Ae night, within the ancient tmgh of Ayr, 
By whim inspired, or haply press'd wi' care ; 
He left his bed, and took* his wayward route, 
And down by Simpson's* wheel'd the left 

(Whether impell'd by all-directing Fate 

To witness what I after shall narrate ; 

Or whether wrapt in meditation high. 

He wander'd out he knew not where nor 

why), 
The drowsy Dungeon-clockf had number'd 

And Wallace tower \ had sworn the fact was 

The tide-swo!n Firth, with sullen-sounding 

roar, 
Thro' the still night dash'd hoarse along the 

shore : 
All else was hush 'd in Nature's closed e'e : 
The silent moon shone high o'er tower and 

tree: 
The chilly frost, beneath the silver beam, 
Crept, gently-crusting, o'er the glittering 

When, lo ! on either hand the Iist'ning 
bard, 
The clanging sough of whistling wings he 

Two dusky forms dart through the midnight 

air y 
Swift as the Gos ^ drves on the wheeling 

Ane on tne Auld Brig his airy shape uprears, 



r the r 



::r p:S 



(That Bards are second-s'ghted is nae joke, 

An' ken the lingo of the spiritual folk ; 

Fays, Spunkies, Kelpies, a' they can explain 

them, 
And ev'n the vera deils they hrawly ken them,) 
Auld Brig appear 'd of ancient Pictish race, 
The vera wrinkles Gothic in his face: 
Heseem'd as he wi' Time had warstled lang. 
Yet teughly doure, he bade an unco bang. 
New Brig was buskit in a braw new coat, 
That he, at Lon'on frae ane Adams got ; 
In's hand five taper staves as smooth's a bead, 
Wi' virls and whirlyggums at the head. 
The Goth was stalking round with anxiou3 

search, 
Spying the time-worn flaws in every arch ; 
It chanced his new-come neebor took his e'e, 
An' e'en a vex'd an* angry heart had he ! 
Wi' thieveless sneer to see each moriish mien, 
He, down the water, gies him thus guide'enl— . 

AUI.D BRIO. 

I doubt na', frien', ye '11 think ye're naesheep- 
Ance ye were streekit o 'er frae bank to bank ! 



* A noted tavern 
f The two steeph 
+ The gos-hayvk, or falcou. 



at the Auld Brig end. 



BURNS.- POEMS. 



173 



But gin ye he a brig as auld as me, 

Tho' faiih that day I doubt ye'll never see ; 

Thsre'Jl be, if that day come, I'll wad a 

boddle, 
Some fewer whigmaleeries in your noddle. 

NEW BRIG- 
Auld Vandal, ye but show your little mense, 
Just much about it wi' your scanty sense : 
Will your poor narrow foot-path of a street, 
Where twa wheel-barrows tremble when they 

Your ruin'd formless bulk, o' star.e an' lime, 
Compare wi' bonnie Brigs o' modern time ? 
There's men o' taste would tak' the Ducal- 

Tho' they should cast the very sark and 

Ere they would grate their feelings wi' the 

0' sic an ugly Gothic hulk as you. 



AULD BRIO. 
Conceited gowk ! puft'd up w 
pride '. 
rhis monie a year I've stood the i 



windy 

ind and 



An' tho' wi' crazy eild I'm sair forfairn, 
I'll be a Brig when ye're a shapeless cairn ! 
As yet ye little ken about the matter, 
But twa-three winters will inform ye better. 
When heavy, dark, continued a'-day rains, 
Wi' deepening deluges o'errlow the plains ; 
When from the hills where springs the brawl- 
ing Coil, 
Or stately Lugar's mossy fountains boil, 
Or where (he Greenock winds his moorland 

Or haunted Garpal} draws his feeble sour* , 
Aroused by blustering winds and spotted 

thowes, 
In mony a torrent down his sna-broo rowes ; 
While crashing ice, borne on the roaring speat, 
Sweeps dams, an' mills, an' brigs, a' to the 

gate; 
And from Glenbuckf down to the Ratton-key,§ 
Auld Ayr is just one lengthen'^ tumbling 

Then down ye'll hurl, de'il nor ye never rise ! 
And dash the gumlie jaups up to the pouring 



O'er arching, mouldy, gloom-inspiring coves. 
Supporting roofs, fantastic, stony groves ; 
Windows and doors, in nameless sculptura 

drest, 
With order, symmetry, or taste unblest ; 
Forms like some bedlam statuary's dream, 
The crazed creations of misguided whim ; 
Forms might be worshipp'd on the bended 

knee, 
And still the second dread command be free, 
Their likeness is not found on earth, in air, or 

Mansions that would disgrace the building 

Of any mason, reptile, bird, or beast; 

Fit only for a doiled Monkish race, 

Or frosty maids forsworn the dear embrace, 

Or cuifs of latter times wha held the notion 

That sullen gloom was sterling true devotion. 

Fancies that our guid Brugh denies protec- 

And soon may they expire, unblest with re- 



The L—d be thankit that v 



: tint the gat( 



* A noted ford, just above the Auld Brig. 

+ The banks of Garpal Water is one of the 
few places in the West of Scotland, where 
those fancy-scaring beings, known by the 
name of Ghaists, still continue pertinaciously 
to inhabit. 



ye, my dear-remember 'd ancient veal- 
Were ye but here to share my wounded feel- 



Ye dainty Deacons, an' yc douce Conveners, 

To whom our moderns are but causey 
cleaners ; 

Ye godly Councils wha hae blest this town ; 

Ye godly Brethren of the sacred gown, 

Wha meekly gae your hurdies to the smiters ; 

And (what would now be strange) ye godly 
Writers : 

A' ye douce folk I've borne aboon the broo, 

Were ye but here, w hat would ye say or do '. 

How would your spirits groan in deep vexa- 
tion, 

To see each melancholy alteration ; 

And agonizing, curse the time and place 

When ye begat the base, degenerate race ! 

Nae langer Rev'rend Men, their country's 
glory, 

In plain braid Scots hold forth a plain bram 

Nae langer thrifty Citizens, an' douce, 
Meet ower a pint, or in the Council house : 
But staumrel, corky- headed, graceless Gen- 
try 
The herryaient and ruin of the country ; 
Men, three parts made by tailors and by bar- 

Wha waste your weel-hain'd gear on d— — d 
new Brigs and Harbours .' 

NEW BRIG- 
baud you there ! for faith ye've said 

than ye can mak U 



rngh, 



And 

through, 

As for your Priesthood, I shall say but littli 
Corbies and Clergy are a shot right kittle : 
But, under favour o' your langer beard, 
Abuse o' Magistrates might weel be spared 
To liken them to your auld warld squad, 
! must needs say comparisons we odd. 



174 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



In Ayr, wag-wits, nae mair can hae a handle 
To mouth • a Cit zen,' a term o' scandal : 
Nae mair the Council waddles down the 

In all the pomp of ignorant conceit ; 

Men wha grew wise priggiu* onre hops an' 



To rustic Agriculture did bequeath 
The broken iron instruments of death : 
At sight of whom our sprites forgat their 
kindling wrath. 



Or gather'd lib'ral v 



■ in Bonds and Seis- 



THE ORDINATION. 



If haply Knowledge, on a random tramp. 

Had shored them with a glimmer of his lamp, p 

And would to Common-sense, for once be- c 

tray'd them, 
Plain dull Stupidity stept kindly in to aid 

them. 



To plea 



"What farther clishmaclaver might bee 
said, 
What bloody wars, if sprites had blood t 

il ; but all before their sight, 



Adown the g'litt'ring 
danced 



ight 



the 



their Tarious dresses I 



I Kilmarnock wabsters, fidge and claw, 
I An' pour your creeshie nations ; 
An' ye wha leather rax an' draw, 
; Cf a' denominators, 
I Swith to the Laigh Kirk, ane an' a', 
I An' there tak up your stations; 
| Then aff to Begbie's in a raw, 
j An' pour divine libations 

For joy this dav. 



glanced : 

They footed o'er the wat'ry glass so neat, 
The infant ice scarce bent beneath their feet. 
While arts of minstrelsy among them rung, 
And soUl-ennobling bards heroic ditties sung. 
O had M'Lauchlan,* thairm-inspiring sage, 
Been there to hear this heavenly band engage, 
When thro' his dear Strathspeys they bure 

with Highland rage ; 
Or when they struck old Scotia's melting airs, 
The lover's raptured joys or bleeding cares ; 
How would his Highland lug been nobler fired, 
And even his matchless hand with finer touch 

inspired ! 
No guess could tell what instrument appear'd, 
But all the soul of Music's self was heard ; 
Harmonious concert rung in every part, 
While simple melody pour'd moving on the 

The Gen us of the stream in front appears, 
A venerable chief advanced in years ; 
His hoary head with water-lilies crown'd, 
His manly leg with garter tangle bound. 
Next carae the loveliest pair in all the ring, 
Sweet Female Beauty hand in hand with 

Then, crown'd with flow'ry hay, came Rural 

Joy, 
And Summer, with his fervid-beaming eye: 
All-cheering Plenty, with her flowing ho'rn. 
Led yellow Autumn wreathed with nodding 

Then Winter's time-bleach 'd locks did hoary 

show, 
Bv Hospitality with cloudless brow ; 
Next follow'd' Courage with his martial stride, 
From where the Feal wild- woody coverts 

hide; 
Eenevolence, with mild benignant air, 
A female form, came from the tow'rs of Stair : 
Learning and Worth in equal measures trode 
From simple Catrine, their long-loved abode: 
Last, white-robed Peace, crown'd withahazel 

wreath, 



II. 

Cursed Common-sense, that imp o' 
Cam in wi' Maggie Lauder ;* 
- aft made her yell, 



But O— 
An' 



This day, M« takes the flail. 

An' he's the boy will blaud her! 

He'll clap a shangan on her tail, 
An' set the bairns to daud her 

Wi' dirt this day. 

IIL 

Mak haste an' turn king David owre, 

An' lilt wi' holy clangor; 
O' double verse come gfe us four, 

An' skirl up the Bangor : 
This day the kirk kicks up a stoure, 

Nae mair the knaves shall wrang her, 
For heresy is in her power, 

And gloriously she'll whang her 

Wi' pith this day. 

IV. 

Come let a proper text be read, 

An' touch it aff wi' vigour, 
How graceless Hamf leugh at his Dad, 

Which made Canaan a niger ; 
Or Phineast drove the murdering blade, 

Wi' whore-abhorring rigour; 
Or Zipporah,§ the scaulding jade, 

Was like a bluidy tiger 

I' the inn that day. 

V. 

There, try his mettle on the creed, 

An' bind him down wi' caution, 
That Stipend is a carnal weed, 

He taks but for the fashion ; 
An' gie him o'er the flock to feed. 

An' punish each transgression ; 

* Alluding to a scoffing ballad which wa9 
„.ade on the admission of the late reverend &i«i 
worthy Mr L. to the Laigh Kirk. 

+ Genesis, ch. ix. ver. 22. 

t Numbers, ch. xxv. ver. 8. 

§ Exodus, ch. iv. ver. 25, 



BURNS.— POEMS. 



Especial, rams that cross the breed, 
Gle them sufficient thresbin , 

Spare them nae day. 

VI. 

Now auld Kilmarnock, cock thy tail, 

An' toss thy horns fu' canty ; 
Nae mair thou'lt rowt out-owre the dale, 

Because thy pasture's scanty ; 
Forlapfu's large o' gospel kail 

Shall till thy crib in plenty, 
An' runts o' grace, the pick and wale, 

No gi'en by way o' dainty, 

But iika day. 

VII. 

Nae maTr by Babel's streams we'll weep, 

To think upon our Zion ; 
An' hing our fiddles, up to sleep, 

Like baby-clouts a dryin' ; 
Come, screw the pegs with tunefu' cheep. 

An' owre the thairms be try in' ; 
Oh, rare 1 to see our elbucks wheep, 

An' a' like lamb-tails fly in' 

Fu' fast this day. 

VIII. 

Lang Patronage, wi' rod o' aim. 

Has shored the kirk's undoin', 
As lately Fenwick, sair forfairn, 

Has proven to its ruin : 
Our Patron, honest man ! Glencairn, 

He saw mischief was brewin' ; 
An' like a godly elect bairn 

He's waled us out a true ane, 

An' sound thi3 day. 

IX. 

Now R harangue nae mair, 

But steek your gab for ever ; 
• Or try the wicked town of Ayr, 

For there they'll think jou clever ; 
Or, nae reflection on your lear, 
Ye may commence a shaver ; 
Cr to the Netherton repair, 
An' turn a carpet weaver 

Aff hand this day 



M and you were just a match, 

We never had sic twa drones ; 
Auld Hornie did the Laigh Kirk watch, 

Just like a winkin' baudrons : 
An' aye he catch'd the tither wretch, 

To fry them in his caudrons : 
But now his honour maun detach, 
| . \Yi' a' his brimstone squadrons, 

Fast, fast, this day. 

XL 

See, see auld Orthodoxy's faes, 

She's swingin' through the city ; 
Hark how the nine-tail'd cat she plays ! 

I vow it's unco pretty : 
There Learning, wi' his Greekish face. 

Grunts out some Latin ditty s 
An' Common-sense is gaun, she says, 

To mak to Jamie Beattie 

Her plaint this day. 

XIL 

But there's Morality himsel', 

Embracing a' opinions ; 
Hear, how he gies the tither yell, 



Between his twa companions ; 
See, how she peels the skin an' fell, 

As ane were peelin' onions ! 
Now there- they're packed aff to hell, 



XIII. 
happy day ! rejoice, rejoice ! 

Come bouse about the porter I 
Morality's demure decoys 

Shall here nae mair find quarter : 
VJ< , R , are the boys, 

That heresy can torture: 
They'll gie her on a rape a hoyse, 

An' cowe her measure shorter 

By the head some day. 

XIV. 
Come bring the tither mutchkin in, 

An' here's for a conclusion, 
To every New Light* mother's son, 

From this time forth Confusion : 
If mair they deave us wi' their din, 

Or Patronage intrusion, 
We'll light a spunk, an' every skin, 

We'll rin them aft' in fusion 

Like oil, some day. 



THE CALF. 

TO THE REV. MR • 

On his Text, Malachi, ch. iv. ver 2. "And 

they shall go forth, and grow up, like calves 
of the stall. ' ' 

Right, Sir ! your text I'll prove it true, 

Though Heretics may laugh ; 
For instance ; there's yoursel' just now, 

God knows, an unco Calf! 

An' should some Patron be so kind, 

Ashless you wi' a kirk, 
I doubt nae, Sir, but then we'll find, 

Ye're still as great a Stirk. 

But, if the Lover's raptured hour 

Shall ever be your lot, 
Forbid it, every heavenly Power, 

You e'er should be a Stot ! 

Tho', when some kind, connubial Dear, 

Your but-and-ben adorns, 
The like has been that you may wear 

A noble head of horns. 

And, in your lug, most reverer.d James, 

To hear you roar and rowte. 
Few men o' sense will doubt your claims 

To rank amang the nowte. 

And when ye're numbered wi' the dead, 

Below a grassy hillock, 
Wi' justice they may mark your head — 

' Here lies a famous Bullock '. ' 



* New Light is a cant phrase in the West of 
Scotland, for those religious opinions which 
Dr Taylor of Norwich has defended so strenu- 
ously. 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



ADDRESS TO THE DEIL. 

O Prince ! O Chief of many throned Pow'rs, 
That led the embattled Seraphim to war. 

Miiton. 

O thon ! whatever title suit thee, 
Auld Hornie, SataD, Nick, or Clootie, 
Wha in yon cavern grim an' sootie, 

Closed nnder hatches, 
Spairges about the brunstane cootie, 

To scaud poor wretches. 

Hear me, auld Haugie, for a wee, 
An' let poor damned bodies be ; 
I'm sure sma' pleasure it cangie, 
E'eu toade'il, 
To skelp a 



Great is thy pow'r, an' great thy fame ; 
Far kend and noted is thy name : 
An' tho' yon lowin' heugh's thy hame, 

Thou travels far ; 
An' faith '. thou's neither lag nor lame, 

Nor blate nor scaur. 

Whyles, ranging like a roarin' lion, 
For prey, a' holes and corners tryin' ; 
Whyles on the strong-winged tempest flyin 

Tirling the kirks ; 
Whyles, in the human bosom pryin', 

Unseen thou lurks. 

I've heard my reverend Grannie say, 
In lanely glens you like to stray ; 
Or where auld ruined castles gray, 



Ye fright the nightly v 



When twilight did my Graunie summon, 
To say her prayers, douce honest woman ! 
Aft yont the dyke she's heard you bummin' ! 



Ae dreary, windy, winter night, 
The stars shot down wi' sklenlin' light, 
Wi' you, mysel', I gat a fright, 

Ayont the lough ; 
Ye, like a rash-bush stood in sight, 

Wi* waving sough. 

The cudgel in my nieve did shake, 
Each bristled hair stood like a stake, 
When wi' an eldritch stour, quuick— qu&ick- 

Amang the springs, 
Awa ye squatter'd like a drake, 

On whistling wings. 

Let Warlocks grim, an' wiiher'd hags, 
Tell how wi' you on ragweed nags, 
They skim the muirs, and dizzy crags, 

Wi' wicked speed; 
And in kirk-yards renew their leagues, 

Owre howkit dead. 

Thence countra wives, wi' toil an' pain, 
May plunge an' plunge the kirn in vain ; 
For oh ! the vellow treasure's ta'en 
By witching skill ; 






Thence mystic knots mak great abuse, 
On young Guidman, fond, keen, an' crouse; 
When the best wark-lume i' the house, 

By cantrip wit, 
Is instant made no worth a louse, 

Just at the bit. 

When thowes dissolve the snawy hoord» 
An' float the jinglin' icy-boord, 
Then Water-kelpies haunt the foord, 
By your direction, 
An' nighted Trav'llers are allured 

To their destruction. 

An' aft your moss-traversing Spunkies, 
Decoy the wight that late and drunk is ; 
The bleezin', cursed, mischievous monkeys 

Delude his eyes, 
Till in some miry slough he sunk is, 
Ne'er mair to rise. 

When Masons' mystic word an' grip. 
In storms an' tempests raise you up, 
Some cock or cat your rage maun utop, 

Or, strange to tell ! 
The youngest Brother ye wad whip 

Aff straught to hell J 

lang syne, in Eden's bonnie yard, 

When youthfu' lovers first were pair'd, 

An' all the soul of love they shared, 

The raptured hour, 

Sweet on the fragrant flowery swaird 

In shady bower : 

Then you, ye auld, snic-drawing dog ! 
Ye came to Paradise incog. 
An' played on man a cursed brogue, 

(Black be your fa'.') 
An' gied the infant world a shog. 

'Maist ruined a'. 

D'ye mind that day, when in a bizz, 
Wi' reekit duds, and reestit gizz, 
Ye did present your smoutie phiz 

'Mang belter folk, 
An' sklented on the man of Uz 

Your spitefu' joke. 

An' how ye gat him i' your thrall, 
An' brak him out o' house an' hall, 
While scabs and blotches did him gal), 

Wi' bitter claw, 
An* Iowsed his ill-tongued wicked scawl, 

Was warst ava ? 

But a' your doings to rehearse, 
Your wily snares an' fechtin' fierce, 
Sin' that'day Michael* did you pierce, 

Down to this time. 
Wad ding a Lallan tongue, or Erse, 

In prose cr rhyme. 

An' now, auld Cloots, I kei ye're thhsfcifi' 
A certain Bardie's rantin', drinkin', 
Some luckless hour will send him linkin', 
To your black pit j 



* Vide Milton, book vi. 



BURNS.- POEMS. 



But, fare ye weel, auld Nickie-ben ! 

O wad ye tak a thought and men' ! 

Ye aiblins might— I dinna ken- 
Still hae a stake— 

I'm wae to think upon yon den, 

Even for your sake ! 



THE 
DEATH AND DYING WORDS 



POOR MAILIE, 
THE AUTHOR'S ONLY PET YOWE. 

AN UNCO MOirRNFU' TALE. 

As Mailie, an' her lambs thegither, 
Were ae day nibbling on the tether. 
Upon her cloot she coost a hitch, 
An' owre she warsled in the ditch; 
There, groaning, dying, she did lie, 
When Hughoj* he camedoytin by. 

Wi' glowrin' een, and lifted han's, 
Poor Hughoc like a statue Stan's : 
He saw her davs were near-hand ended, 
But wae's my heart ! he could na mend it ! 
He gaped wide, but naething spak ! 
At length poor Mailie silence brak : 

4 O thou, whase lamentable face 
Appears to mourn my waefu' case ! 
My dying words attentive hear, 
An' bear ihem to my Master dear. 

« Tell him, if e'er again he keep 
As muckle gear as buy a sheep, 
O, bid him never tie them mair 
Wi' wicked strings o' hemp or hair ! 
But ca' them out to park or hill, 
An' let them wander at their will : 
So may his flock increase and grow 
To scores o' lambs, an' packs o' woo'! 

' « Tell him, he was a master kin', 
An' aye was guid to me an' mine : 
An' now my dying charge I gie him, 
My helpless lambs I trust them wi' him. 

' O bid him save their harmless lives, 
Frae dogs, an* tods, an' butchers' knives, 
But gie them guid cow-milk their fill, 
Till they be fit to fend themsel' ; 
An' tent them duly, e'en an' morn, 
Wi' teats o' hay an' rips o' corn. 

' An' may they never learn the gate3 
Of ither vile, wanrestfu' pets I 
To slink through slaps, an' reave an' steal, 
At stacks o' pease, or stocks o' kail. 
So may they, like their great forbears, 
For mony a year come thro' the sheers : 



' My poor toop-lamb, my son an' heir, 

bid him breed him up wi' care '. 
An' if he live to be a beast, 

To pit some having in his breast, 
An' warn him, what I winna name, 
To stay content wi yowes at hame ; 
An' no to rin an' wear his clools, 
Like ither menseless, graceless brutes. 

- « An' neist rrty yowie, silly thing, 
Guid keep thee frae a tether string 1 
O' may thou ne'er forgather up 
Wi' ony blastit moorlani 1 . toop ; 
But aye keep mind to moop an' in ell 
Wi' sheep o' credit like thysel' ! 

« An' now, mj bairns, wi' my last breath, 

1 lea'e my blessin' wi' you baith : 
An' when you think upo' your mither, 
Mind to be kin' to ane anither. 



POOR MAILTE'S ELEGY. 

Lament in rhyme, lament in prose, 
Wi' »aut tears trickling down your nose ; 
Our bardie's fate is at a close, 

Past a' remead ; 
The last sad cape-stane o' his woes ; 

Poor Mai lie '3 dead ! 

's no the loss o' warl's gear. 
That could sae bitter draw the tear, 
Or niak our bardie, dowie, wear 

The mourning weed : 
He's lost a friend and neebor dear, 
In Maiiie dead. 

Thro' a' the town she trotted by him' 
A lang half-mile she could descrv him ; ' 
Wi' kindly bleat when she did spy him, 

She ran wi' speed ; 
A friend mair faithfu' ne'er cam nigh him, 
Than Mailie dead. 



I'll say't, she never brak a fence, 

Thro' thievish greed. 

Our bardie, la..ely, keeps the spence 
Sin' Mailie 's dead. 

Or, if he wanders up the howe, 
Her living image in her yowe 
Comes bleating to him, owre the knowe, 

For bits o' bread ; 
An' down the briny pearls rowe 

For Mailie dead. 



^ A neebor herd-callan. 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



For her forbears were brought in ships 
Frae yont the Tweed ! 

A bonnier fleesh ue er cross'd the clips 
Thau Mailie dead. 

Wae worth the man wha first did shape 
That vile, wanchancie thing — a rape I 
It maks guid fellows eirn au' gape, 

Wi' chokln' dread ; 
An' Robin's bonnet wave wi' crape, 
For 31 ail: e dead. 

O, a' ye bards on bonnie Doon ! 
An* wha on Ajr your chanters tune ! 
Come, join the melancholious croon 

O' Robin's reed I 
Ills heart will never get aboon 

His Mailie dead. 



TO J. SYME. 



Friendship ! mysteriou: 
Sweel'ner of life, and & 
1 o.Te thee much I 



.Blair. 



Dear Syme, the sleest, paukie thief, 
'i bat e'er attemptea stealth or rief, 
Ye surely hae some warlock-breef 

Owre human hearts ; 
For ne'er a bosom yet was prief 

Against your arts. 



every 



, I swear by sun an' moon, 

:ar that b.tiiks aboon, 

ue twenty pair o' shoon, 

Just gaun to se 

ry ither pair that's done, 

Mail taeu I'm 



you: 



That auld capricious carlin, Nature, 
To msik amends far scrimp:: stature, 
Sue's turu'd you aff, a human creature 

i)a her first plau, 
And in her freaks, on every feature, 

She's wrote, tbe Man. 

Just now I've taen the fit o' rhyme, 

" .y u^nuie noddle's working prime, 
tUj fancy yerkit up su'jlime 

V\ i' hasty summon ; 
iiae ye a leisure moment's time 

To hear what's coxiu' ? 

Some rhyme a neebor's name to lash ; 
Some rhwue (vain thought !) for needru' cash, 
Suiue rhyme to court the country clash, 

An' raise a din ; 
1- Jr me an aim I never fash; 

1 rhyme for fun. 

The star that rules my luckless lot, 
I ! is fated me the russet coat, 
_^' damned my fortune to the groat : 

But iu requit, 
Ui5 bless'd me wi' a random shot 
O' cjuutra wit. 



But stUl the mair I'm that way bent, 

Something cries * Hoolie ! 

I red you, honest man, tak tent ! 

Ye'il shaw your folly. 

' There's ither poets, much your betters, 
Far seen in Greek, deep men o' letters, 
Hae thought ihey had insured their debtors, 

A' future ages ; 
Now moths deform in shapeless tetters, 

Their unknown pages. • 

Then farewell hopes o' laurel-boughs, 
To garland my poetic brows ! 
Henceforth I'll rove where busy ploughs 

Are whistling thraug, 
An' teach the laneiy heights an' howes 

My rustic sang. 

I'll wander on, with tentless heed 
How never-halting moments speed, 
Till fate shall snap the brittle thread ; 

Then, all unknown. 
I'll lay me with th' inglorious dead, 

Forgot and gone! 

But why o' death begin a tale ? 
Just now we're living, sound an' hale, 
Then top and maintop crowd the sail, 

Heave care o'er side ! 
And large, before enjoyment's gale, 

Let's twk' the tide. 

This life, sae far's I understand, 
Is a ' enchanted fairy land, 
Where pleasure is the magic wand, 

That, wielded right, 
Maks hours like minutes, hand in hand, 
Dance by fu' light. 

The magic-wand then let us wield ; 
For anee that rive-an'-forty's speel'd. 
See crazy, weary, joyless eild, 

" Wi* wrinkled fiice, 
Comes hostin', hirplin', owre the field, 
Wi' creep'ui' pace. 

When anee life's day draws near tl 
gloamin', 
Then furewell vacant careless roansin* ! 
An' farewell cheerfu' tankards foamin', 



O Life ! how pleasant in thy morning, 
Young Fancy's rays the hills adorning ! 
Cold pausing Caution's lesson scorning, 

We frisk away, 
Like school-boys, at the expected warning 

To joy and play. 

We wander there, we wander here 
We eye the rose upon the brier, 
Unmindful that the thorn is near, 

Amang the .leaves : 
And though the puny wound appear, 

Short while it grieves. 

Some lucky, find a flowery spat, 
For which they never toiled nor swat, 
They drink the sweet and eat the fat, 
But care or pain 5 






BURNS — POEMS. 



With steady aim, some Fortune chase ; 
Keen hope does every sinew brace : 
Thro' fair, thro' foul, they urge the race, 

And seize the prey : 
Then cannie in some cozie place, 

They close the day. 

An' others, like your humble servan'. 
Poor wights ! nae rules or roads observin' : 
To r)ght oe left, eternal swervin\ 

They zig-zag on ; 
Till curst wi' age, obscure an' starviu', 
They aften groau. 

Alas ! what bitter toil an' straining— 
But truce with peevish poor complaining! 
Is Fortuue's iickle Luna, waning ? 

E'en It! her gang, 
Beneath what light she has remaining, 
Let's sing our sang. 

My pen I here fling to the door, 
And kneel, « Ye Pow'rs ! ' and warm implo 

* Tho' I should wander terra o'er, 

In all her climes, 
Grant me but this, I ask no more, 

Aye rowth o' rhymes. 

• Gie dreeping roasts to countra lairds, 
Till icicles hing frae their beards : 

Gie line braw claes to fine life-guards, 
An' inaids of honour : 

An* yill an' whisky gie to cairds, 

Until they sconner. 

* A title, Dempster merits it ; 
A garter gie to Willie Pitt ; 

Gie wealth to some be-ledger'd cit, 
In cent per cent ; 

But gi'e me real, sterling wit, 

An' I'm content. 

• While ye are pleased to keep me hale, 
I'll sit down o'er my scanty meal, 
Be"t water-brose, or muslin-kail, 

Wi' cheerfu' face, 



To say the grace. 



An anx'ous 

Behint my lu 



i my lug, or by my 
beneath misforti 



Ijouk 

Sworn foe to s 



:l's I may : 



- ..', care, an' prose, 
I rhyme away. 

O ye douce folk, that live by rule, 
Grave, tideless blooded, calm and cool, 
Compared wi' you— O fool '. fool ! fool ! 
„ , How much unlike I 

lour hearts are just a standing pool, 
Your lives, a dyke! 

Nae hair-brained sentimental traces 
In your unlettered nameless faces ; 
In arioso trills and graces 

Ye never stray, 
Hut gravinimei solemn basses 

Yc hum a\vay. 



Ye are sae grave, nae doubt ye're wise» 
Nap ferly tho' ye do despise 
The hairum-scairum, ram-stam boys, 
The rattlin' squad: 
I see you upward cast your eyes — 

— Ye ken the road — 

Whilst I_but I shall haud me there— 
Wi' you I'll scarce gang ony where — 
Then, Jamie, I shall say nae mair, 

But quat my sang, 
Content wi' you to mak a pair, 

Whare'er I gang. 



A DREAM. 

Thoughts, words, and deeds, the statute blames 

But surely dreams were ne'er indicted treason. 

[On reading, in the public papers, the Lau- 
reate's Ode, with the other parade of June 
4, 1786, the author was no sooner dropt 
asleep, than he imagined himself transported 
to the birth-day levee ; and in his dreaming 
fancy, made the following Address.] 



:o your 
rv birth day y< 



a J eStj ! - 



Guid mo: 
May h. 

A humble poet wishes 
My hardship here at youi 

On sic a day as this is, 
■s sure an uncouth sight to see, 

Amang the birth-day ' 



r levee, 



rin-aay dresses 
Sae fine this day. 



II. 

see ye're complimented thrang, 
By raony a lord an' lady, 
God save the King' 's a cuckoo sang 
That's unco easy said aye ; 
The poets, too, a venal gan°-, 

Wi' rhymes weel turned an' ready, 

Wad gar you trow ye ne'er do wrang, 

merring steady, 

On sic a day. • 



But aye 



For me ! before a 



III. 



onarch's face, 
i^vcn mere 1 wmna flatter; 
or neither pension, post, nor place, 
Am I your humble debtor : 
le nae reflection on your grace, 
Your kingship to bespatter; 
There's inome vvaur been o' the race, 
An' aiblins ane been be:ter 

Than you this day. 

IV. 

lis very true, my sov'reign king, 
My skill may well be doubted : 
But facts are chiels that wil 
An' downa be disputed: 
Your royal nest beneath your wing 

Is e'en right reft an' clouted, 
An' now the third part o' the string, 
An' less, will gang about it 

Than did ue day. 



a ding 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



V. 



For be't frae me that I aspire 

To blame your legislation, 
Or say, ye wisdom want, or 6re, 

To rule this mighty nation ! 
But faith ! I muckle doubt, my Sire, 

Ye've trusted ministration 
To chaps, wha, in a barn or byre, 

Wad better fill'd their station 

Than courts yon day. 

VI. 

An' now ye've gien auld Britain peace, 

Her broken shins to plaister ; 
Your sair taxation does her fleece, 

Till she has scarce a tester ; 
For me, thank God, my life's a lease 

Nae bargain wearing faster, 
Or, faith ! I fear, that wi' the geese, 

I shortly boost to pasture 

X' the craft some day. 

VII. 

I'm no mistrusting Willie Pit, 

When taxes he enlarges, 
(An' Will's a true guid fallow's get, 

A name not envy spairges), 
That he intends to pay your debt, 

An' lessen a' your charges ; 
But God sake ! let nae saving fit 

Abridge your bonnie barges 

An' boats this day. 

VIII. 

Adieu, rey Liege ! may freedom geek 

Beneath your high protection ; 
An' may ye rax Corruption's neck, 

An' gie her for dissection ! 
But since I'm here, I'll no neglect, 

In loyal true affection, 
To pay your Queen, with due respect, 

My fealty an' subjection 

This great birth -day. 

IX. 

Hail, Majesty ! Most Excellent ! 

WTiile nobles strive to please ye 
Will ye accept a compliment 

A simple poet gies ye ! 
Thae bonnie baimtime, Heav'n has lent 

Still higher may they heeze ye 
In bliss, till fate seme day ib sent, 

For ever to release ye 

Frae care that day. 



For you, young potentate o' Wales, 

I tell yo'ur Highness fairly, 
Down Pleasure's stream, wi 1 swellirg s 

I'm tauld ye 're driving rarely ; 
But some day ye may gnaw your nails, 

An' curse your folly sairly, 
That e'er ye brack Diana's praes, 

Or rattled dice wi' Charlie, 

By night or day. 



1 There, him* at Agincourt wha sh *<■(■> 
Few better were or braver ; 
I And yet wi' funny queer Sir Job.D,f 
He was an unco shaver 

For monie a day. 

XII. 

i For you, right rev'rend Osnabrug, 
' Nane sets the lawn-sleeve sweeter, 
I Altho' a ribbon at your lug 
Wad been a dress completer : 
As ye disown yon paughty dog 
That bears the keys of Peter, 
'Ih»n, swith ! an' get a wife to hug, 
Or trouth, ye'll stain the mitre 

Some luckless day. 

XIII. 

young royal Tarry Breeks, I learn, 

Ye've lately come athwart her ; 
A glorious galleyt stem an' stern, 

Weel rigg'd for Venus' barter ; 
But first hang out, that she'll discern 

Your hymeneal charter, 
Then. heave aboard your gTapple aim, 

An' large upo' her quarter, 

Come full that day. 

XIV. 
Ye, lastly, bonnie blossoms a', 

Ye royal lasses dainty, 
Heav'n make you guid as weel as bra 

An' gie you lads a-plenfy : 
But sneer nae British boys awa', 

For kings are unco scant aye ; 
An' German gentles are but sma>, 

They're better just than want aye 
On onie day. 



God bless vou a' ! consider now, 

Ye're unco muckle dautet ; 
But, ere the course o' life be thro' 

It may be bitter sautet; 
An' I hae seen their coggie feu, 

That yet hae tarrow't at it ; 
But or the day was done, I trow, 

The laggen they hae clautet 

Fu' clean that day. 



THE VISION. 

DUAN FIRST. § 

sun had closed the winter day, 
curlers quat their roaring play, 
hunger'd maukin ta'en her way 

To kail-yards green, 
ile faithless snaws ilk step be'.ray 

Whare she has been. 



XI. 



So. ye may dousely fill a throne, 



* King Henry V. 

f Sir John Falstaff, vide Shakspeare. 

± Alluding to the newspaper account of a 
certain royal sailor's amour. 

§ Duan, a term of Ossian's for the different 
divisions of a digressive poem. See his Cath. 
Loda r vol. ii. of M'Pherson's translation. 



BURNS POEMS. 



And whan the day had closed his e 



There, lanely, by the ingle-cheek, 
I sat and e'ed the spewing reek, 
That fill'd wi' hoast-provoking smeek, 

The auld clay biggin' ; 
An' heard the restless rattons squeak 

About the riggin'. 

All in this mottie, misty clime, 

I backward mused on wasted time, 

How I had spent my youthfu' prime, 

An' done nae-thing, 

But stringin' blethers up in rhyme, 

For fools to sing. 

Had I to guid advice but harkit, 
I might by this, hae led a market, 
Or strutted in a bank and clarkit 

My cash account ; 
While here, half-mad, half-fed, half-scrkit, 



I started, mutt 'ring, blockhead ! coof ! 
And heaved on high my waukit loof, 
To swear by a' yon starry roof, 

Or some rash aith. 
That I, henceforth, -would be rbyme-proof 

Till my last breath— 

When click ! the string the sneck did draw 
An' jee ! the door gaed to the wa' ) 
An' by my ingle-lowe I saw, 

Now bleezin' bright, 
A tight outlandish Hizzie, braw, 

Come full in sight. 

Ye need na doubt, I held my whisht! 
The infant aith half-form't was crush't J 
I glowr'd as eerie 's I'd been dusbt 

In some wild glen ; 
When sweet like modest worth, she blush't, 

And stepped ben. 

Green, slender, leaf-clad holly boughs, 
Were twisted gracefu' round her brows ; 
I took her for some Scottish Muse, 

By that same token : 
An' come to stop those reckless tows, 

Would soon been broken. 

A ' hair-brain 'd, sentimental trace' 
Was strongly marked in her face ; 
A wildly-witty, rustic grace 

Shone full upon her; 
Her eye, ev'n turn'd on empty space, 

Beam'd keen with honour. 

Down fiow'd her robe, a tartan sheen, 
Till half a leg was scrimply seen ; 
And such a leg ! my bonnie Jean 

Could only peer it ; 
Sae straught, sae taper, tight, and clean, 

Nane else cam near it. 

Her mantle large, of greenish hue, 
My gazing wonder chiefly drew ; 
Deep lights and shades, bold mingling, threw 

A lustre grand ; 
And seem'd to my astonish 'd view, 

A well-known laud. 



Here, rivers :n the sea were lost ; 
There, mountains to the skies were tost : 
Here, tumbling billows mark'd the coast, 

With surging foam ; 
There, distant shone Art's lofty toast, 

The lordly dome. 

[ere Doon pcur'd down his far-fetch'c 

floods ; 
re, well-fed Irwine stately thuds : 
Auld hermit Ayr staw thro' his woods, 

On to the shore ; 
And many a lesser torrent scuds, 

With seeming roar. 

Low, in a sandy valley spread, 
In ancient borough rear'd her head ; 
Still, as in Scottish story read, 

She boasts a race, 
To every ncbler virtue bred, 

And polish 'd grace. 

By stately tower or palace fair, 
Or ruins pendent in the air, 
Bold stems of heroes, here and there, 

I could discern ; 
Some seem'd to muse, some seem'd to dare, 
With feature stern. 

Mv heart did glowing transport feel, 
To see a race * heroic wheel, 
And brandish round the deep-dyed steel 

In sturdy blows ; 
While back-recoiling seem'd to reel 

Their southron foes. 

His Country's saviour,* mark him well ! 
Bold Richardton's + heroic swell; 
The chief on Sark §' who glorious fell, 

In high command ; 
And he whom ruthless fates expel 

His native land. 

There, where a sceptred Pictish shade || 
Stalk 'd round his ashes lowly laid, 
I mark'd a martial race portray'd 

In colours strong ; 
Bold, eoMier-featured, undismay'd 

They strode along. 



* The Wallaces. f William Wallace. 
$ Adam Wallace of Richardton, cousin to 
he immortal preserver of Scottish indepen- 
dence. 

Wallace, Laird of Craigie, who was 
second in command, under Douglas, Earl of 
Ormond, at the famous battle on the banks of 
Sark, fought, anno 1448. That glorious vic- 
tory was principally owing to the judicious 
conduct and intrepid valour of the gallant 
Laird of Craigie, who died of his wounds after 
the action. 

(J Coilus king of the Picts, from whom the 
listrict of Kyle is said to take its name, lies 
niried, as tradition says, near the family-seat 
of the Montgomeries of Coilsfield, where his 
burial-place is still shown. 

f Barskiir.ming, the seal of the late Lord 
Justice-CUjfc. 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



(Fit haunts for friendship or for love 
In musing mood,) 

An aged judge, I saw him rove, 

Dispensing good. 

With deep-struck reverential awe,* 
The learned sire and son I saw, 
To Nature's God and Nature's law 

They gave their lore, 
This, all its source and end to draw, 
That to adore. 

Brydon's hrave ward + I well could spy, 
Beneath old Scotia's smiling eye; 
Who call'd on Fame, low standing by, 

To hand him on, 
Where many a patriot-name on high, 

And hero shone. 

DUAK SECOND. 

With musing-deep, astonish'd stare, 
I view'd the heav'nly-seeming fair, 
A whispering throb did witness bear, 

Of kindred sweet, 
When with an elder sister's air 

She did me greet. 

« All hail ! my own inspired bard ! 
In me thy native muse regard ! 
No longer mourn thy fate is hard, 
Thus poorly low 
I come to give thee such reward 
Aa we bestow. 

' Know, the great genius of this land 
Has many a li^ht, aerial band, 
Who, all beneath his high command, 



Some rouse the patriot up to bare 

Corruption's heart : 

Some teach the bard, a darling care, 
The tuneful art. 



Or, 'mid the venal s 



To mend the honest patriot-lore, 

And grace the hand. 

•And when the bard, or hoary sage, 
Charm or instruct the future age, 
They bind the wild poetic rage 



« Hence Fullarton the brave and young j 
Hence Dempster's zeal-inspired tongue ; 
Hence sweet harmonious Beattie sung 

His "Minstrel lays ;" 



* Catrine, the seat of the late Doctor, and 
present Professtr Stewart. 
j Colonel Fullarton. 



• To lower orders are assign'd 

The humbler ranks of human-kind, 

The rustic Bard, the lab'ring Hind, 

The Artisan ; 
All choose, as various they're in 

The various man. 

1 When yellow waves the heavy grain, 
The threat'ning storm some strongly rein ; 
Some teach to meliorate the pla ; n, 

With tillage skill : 
And some instruct the shepherd-train, 
Blythe o'er the hill. 

* Some hint the lover's harmless wile : 
Some grace the maiden's artless smile ; 
Some soothe the laborer's weary toil, 

For humble gains, 
And make his cottage scenes beguile 
His cares and pains. 

' Seme, bounded to a district-space, 
Explore at large man's infant race, 
™" nark the embryotic trace 

Of rustic Bard; 
And careful note each op'ning grace, 
A guide and guard. 

' Of these am I— Coila my name; 
And this district as mine I claim, 
Where once the Campbells, chiefs of fame. 

Held ruling pow'r, 
I mark'd thy embryo tuneful flame, 

Thy natal hour. 

' With future hope, I oft would gaze, 
Fond on thy little early ways, 
Thy rudely caroll'd, chiming phrase, 
In uncouth rhymes, 
Fired at the simple, artless lays 
Of other times. 

[ saw thee seek the sounding shore, 
Delighted with the dashing roar ; 
Or when the north his fleecy store 

Drove thro' the sky, 
saw grim Nature's visage hoar 

Struck thy young eye. 

« Or when the deep-green mantled earth 
Warm cherish 'd ev'ry flow 'ret 's birth, 
And joy and music pouring forth 
In ev'ry grove, 
saw thee eye the general mirth 

With boundless love. 

■ WTien ripen 'd fields, and azure skies, 
Call'd forth the reaper's rustling noise, 
v thee leave their evening joys, 
And lonely stalk, 
To vent thy bosom's swelling rise 
In pensive walk. 

Vhen youthful love warm blushing strong, 
Keen-shivering shot thy nerves along, 
Those accents, grateful to thy tongue, 
Th' adored Name, 
g-ht thee how to pour in song, 

To soothe thy flams. 



BURNS — POEMS. 



* I saw thy pulse's maddening play, 
Wild send thee Pleasure's devious way, 
Misled by Fancy's meteor ray, 

By Passion driven ; 
But yet the light that led astray 

Was light from heaven. 

•I taught thy manners-painting strains, 
The loved, (he ways of simple swains, 
Till now o'er all my wide domains 

Thy fame extends ; 
And some, the pride of L'oila's plains, 

Become thy friends. 

' Thou canst not learn, nor can I show, 
To paint with Thomson's landscape glow ; 
Or wake the bosom-melting throe, 

With Shenstone's art ; 
Or pour, with Gray, the moving flow 
Warm on the heart. 

• Yet all beneath th' unrivall'd rose, 
The lowly daisy sweetly blows : 

Tho' large the forest's monarch throws 
His army shade, 

Yet green the juicy hawthorn grows, 
Adown the glade. 

« Then never murmur nor repine ; 
Strive in thy humble sphere to shine ; 
And trust me, not Potosi's mine. 

Nor kings' regard , 
Can give a bliss o'ermatchiug thine, 
A rustic Bard. 

' To give my counsels all in one, 
Thy tuneful flame still careful fan ; 
Preserve the dignity of Man, 

With soul erect ; 
And trust the Universal Plan 

Will all protect. 

' And wear thou this,' — she solemn said. 
And bound the holly round my head ; 
The polished leaves, and berries red, 

Did rustling play ; 
And, like a passing thought, she fled 

In light away. 



ADDRESS TO THE UNCO GUID, 

OR THE 

RIGIDLY RIGHTEOUS. 



My son, these maxims make a rule, 
And lump them aye thegither : 

The Rigid Righteous is a fool, 
The Rigid Wise anither: 

The cleanest corn that e'er was dight 
^ May hue some pyles o' caff in ; 
a fellow-creature slight 



O ye wha are sae guid yoursel, 
Sae pious and sae holy, 



Ye've nought to do but mark and tell 
Your neebour's fauts and folly ! 

Whase life is like a weel gaun mill, 
Supply 'd Wi ' store o' water, 

The heapet happer's ebbing still, 
And still the clap plays clatter. 

II. 

Hear me, ye venerable core, 

As counsel for poor mortals, 
That frequent pass douce Wisdom's dcc-r 

For glaikit Folly's portals : 
I, for their thoughtless, careless sakes, 

Would here propone defences, 
Their donsie tricks, their black mistake^ 

Their failings and mischances. 

III. 

Ye see your state -wi' theirs compared. 

And shudder at the niffer, 
But cast a moment's fair regard. 

What maks the mighty differ ? 
Discount what scant occasion gave 

That purity ye pride in, 
And (what's aft mair than a' the lave} 

Your better art o ' hiding. 

IV. 

Think, when your castigated pulse 

Gies now and then a wallop, 
What ragings must his veins convuNe, 

That still eternal gallop : 
Wi' wind and tide fair i' your tail, 

Right on ye scud your sea-way ; 
But in the teeth o' baith to sail, 

It maks an unco lee way. 

V. 

See social life and glee sit down, 

All joyous and unthinking, 
Till, quite transmogrified, they're giowr 

Debauchery and drinking: 
O would they stay to calculate, 

Th' eternal consequences ! 
Or your more dreaded hell to state, 

Damnation of expenses ! 

VI. 

Ye high, exalted, virtuous dames, 

Tied up in godly laces, 
Before ye gie poor frailty names, 

Suppose a change o' cases ; 
A dear ioved lad, convenience snug, 

A treacherous inclination 

But let me whisper i' your lug, 

Ye're aiblins nae temptation. 

VII. 

Then gently scan your brothpr man, 

Still gentler sister woman ; 
Tho' they may gang a kermiu wrang, 

To step as.de is human; 
One point must still be greatly dark, 

The moving why they do it ; 
And just as lamely can ye mark, 

How far perhaps they rue it. 

VIII. 

Who made the heart, 'tis He alone 

Decidedly can try us, 
He knows each chord — its various tone, 

Each spring— its various bias • 
Then at the balance let's be mute, 

We never ean adjust it ; 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



TAM SAMSON'S* ELEGY. 



Has auld Kilmarnock seen the Dei] ! 

Or great M' f thrawn his heel ? 

Or R i again grown weel 

To preach an* read ! 
' Na, waur than a' ! ' cries ilka chiel, 

4 Tain Samson 's dead ! ' 



Kilmarnock lang n 



;:.t a 



grane, 



Aa' deed her bairns, man, wife, and we 
In mourning weed ; 

To death, she's dearly paid the kane, 
Tarn Samson's dead ! 

The brethren of the mystic level. 
May hing their head in woefu' bevel, 
While by their nose the tears will revej, 

Like ony bead ! 
Death's gien the lodge an unco devel, 

Tarn Samson's dead. 

"When winter muffles up his cloak, 
And binds the mire like a rock ; 
When to the lochs the curlers flock, 

Wi' gleesome speed ; 
Wha will they station at the cock ? 

Tam Samson's deu.d ! 

He was the king o' a' the cere, 
To guard, or draw, or wick a bore, 
Or up the rink like Jehu roar, 

Bat now he lags on death's hog-score, 
Tam Samson's dead ! 



Now safe the stately s 
And trouts bedropp'd wi' crimson hail, 
And eels weel kenn'd for souple.tail, 

And gleds for greed, 
Since dark in death's fish-creel we wail 

Tam Samson dead .' 

Rejoice, ye birring paitricks a' : 
Ye cootie moorcocks crousely craw ; 
Y r e maukins, cock your fuds fu' braw, 

Witbouten dread ; 
Your mortal fae is now awa', 

Tam Samson's dead ! 



* When this worthy old sportsman went out 
last muirfowl season, he supposed it was to be, 
in Ossian's phrase, ' the last of his fields J ' and 
expressed an ardent wish to die and be buried 
in the muirs. On this hint, the author com- 
posed his elegy and epitaph. 

f A certain preacher, a great favourite with 
the million. Vide the Ordination, Stanza II. 

% Another preacher, an equal favourite with 
the few, who was at that time ailing. For him 
see also the Ordination, Stanza IX. 



While pointers round impatient bnrn'd 
Frae couples freed ! 
? VrrP.„r„'d! 



In vain auld age his body batters ; 
In vain the gout his ancles fetters ; 
In vain the turns came down like waters 

An acre braid ! 
Now every auld wifegreetin', clatters, 

Tam Samson 's dead ! 

Owre mony a weary hag he limpit 
An' aye the tither shot he thumpit, 
Till coward death behind him jumpit 

Wi ' deadly feid ; 
Now he proclaims wi' tout o' trumpet, 

Tam Samson's dead! 

When at his heart he felt the dagger, 
He reel'd his wonted bottle swagger, 
But yet he drew the mortal trigger 

Wi ' weel-aim'd heed : 
' L - d, five ! ' he cried, an' owre did stagger ', 

Tam Samson's dead! 

Ek hoary hunter mourn'd a brither ; 
Ilk sportsman youth bemoan'd a father ; 
Yon auld grey stane amang the heather, 

Marks out his head, 
Whare Burns has writ, in rhyming blether, 

Tam Samson 's dead ! 

There low he lies, in lasting rest : 
Perhaps upon his mould 'ring breast 
Some spitefu' muirfowl bigs her nest, 

To hatch an' breed ; 
Alas ! nae mair he '11 them molest ! 

Tam Samson's dead. 

When August winds the heather wave, 
And sportsmen wander by yon grave, 
Three volleys let his niem'ry crave 

O pouther an' lead, 
Till Echo answer frae her cave, 

Tam Samson's dead ! 

Heaven rest his saul, whare'er he be ! 
Is the wish o ' meny mae than me : 
He had twa fauts, or maybe three, 

Yet what remead ? 
Ae social, honest man, want we ; 

Tam Samson's dead '. 



THE EriTAPH. 

Tam Samson's weel- worn clay here lies, 
Y r e canting zealots, spare him I 
' hones: worth in heaven rise, 
Ye '11 mend or ye won near him. 



PER CONTRA. 







1 


--"..:= 
% - 




^' 



w=~ 









c>^^^y~: 












M 






-^#ST '■■■ " 



I 



BURNS POEMS. 



For yet unskaith'd by death's gleg gull 



Tarn Samson's livin'. 



HALLOWEEN. * 



[The following poem will, by many readers, 
be well enough understood ; but for the sake 
of those who are unacquainted with the man- 
ners and traditions of the country where the 
scene is cast, notes are added, to give some 
account of the principal charms and spells of 
that night, so big with prophecy to the pea. 
santry in the West of Scotland. The pas- 
sion of prying into futurity makes a striking 
part of the history of human nature in its 
rude state, in all ages and nations ; and it 
may be some entertainment to a philosophic 
mind, if any such should honour the author 
with a perusal, to see the remains of it 
among the more unenlightened in our own.] 



Yes ! let the rich deride, the poor disdain, 
The simple pleasures of the lowly train ; 
To me more dear, congenial to my heart, 
One native charm, than all the gloss of art. 



I. 

Jpon that night, when fairies light, 

On Cassilis Downans + dance, 
Or owre the lays, hi splendid blaze, 

On sprightly coursers prance ; 
Or for Colean the route is ta'en, 

Beneath the moon's pale beams '. 
There up the cove j; to stray an' rove 

Amang the rocks and streams, 

To sport that night, 

II. 

Amang the bonnie winding banks 

Where Doon rins, wimp) in', clear, 
Where Bruce § ance ruled the martial ranks, 

An' shook his Carrick spear, 
Some merry, friendiy, countra folks, 

Together did convene, 
To burn their nits, au' pou their stocks, 

An' baud their Halloween 

Fu' blithe that night. 



* Is thought to be a night when witches, 
devils, and other mischief-making beings, are 
all abroad on their baneful midnight errands ; 
particularly those aerial people, the Fairies, 
are said on that night to hold a grand anni- 

•f- Certain little, romantic, rocky, green 
hills, in the neighbourhood of the ancient seat 
of the Earls of Cassilis. 

| A noted cavern near Colean-house called 
The Cove of Colean; which, as Cassilis Dow- 
nans, is fumed in country story for being a 
favourite haunt for fairies. 

§ The famous family of that name, the an- 
cestors of Robert, the great deliverer of his 
country, wore Earls of Carrick. 



III. 



The lasses feat, an' cleanly neat, 

Mair braw than when their tine ; 
Their faces blithe, fa' sweetly kythe 

Hearts leal, an' warm, aa' kin' ; 
The ladssae trig, \vi' wooer-babs, 

Weel knotted on their garten, 
Some unco blate, an* some wi' gabs, 

Gar lasses' hearls gang startin' 

Whyles fast at night, 

IV. 

Then first and foremost, thro' the kail, 

Their stocks \\ maun a' be sought ance 
They steek their een, an* graip an' wale, 

For muckle anes and straught anes. 
Poor hav'rel Will fell afF the drift, 

An' wander'd thro' the bow-kail, 
An* pou't, for want o' better shift, 

A ruut was like a sow-tail, 

Saebow't that night. 



Then, straught or crooked, yird or nane, 

They roar an' cry a' throu'ther ; 
The very wee things todlin', rin 

Wi' stocks out-owre their shouther ; 
An* gif the custoc 's sweet or sour, 

Wi' joctelegs they taste them ; 
Syne coziely, aboon the door, 

Wi* caimie care, they've placed them 
To lie that nignt. 

VI. 

The lasses staw frae 'mang them a' 

To pou their stalks o corn j*J 
But Rab slips out, and jinks about, 

Behint the muckle thorn ; 
He grippet Nelly hard an' fast ; 

Loud skirl 'd a' the lasses ; 
But her top-pickle maist was lost, 

When kiuttlin* in the fause-house** 
Wi' him that night. 



E || The first ceremony of Halloween, is pull- 
ing each a stock, or plant of kail. They uiust 
go out, hand in hand, with eyes shut, and 
pull the first they meet with: Its being big or 
little, straight or crooked, is prophetic of the 
6ize and shape of the grand object of all their 
spells — the husband or wife. If any yird or 
earth stick to the root, that is tocher, or for- 
tune ; and the taste of the custoc, that is, the 
heart of the stem, is indicative of the natural 
temper and disposition. — Lastly, the stems, or 
to give them their ordinary appellation, the 
runts, are placed somewhere above the head of 
the door ; and the Christian names! of the peo- 
ple whom chance brings into the house, are, 
according to the priority of placing the runts, 
the names in que-tion. 

^i They go to the barn-yard, and pull each, 
at three several times, a stalk of oats. If the 
third stalk wants the top-pickle, that is, the 
grain at the top of the stalk, the party in 
question will come to the marriage bed any 
thing but a maid. 

** When the corn is in a doubtful state, by 
being too green, or wet, the stack-builder, by- 
means of old timber, &c. makes a large apart- 
ment in his stack, with an opening in the side 
which is fairest exposed to the wind; this he 
calls a fause-house. 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



VIL 

The auld gu id wife's weel-hoordet nits'* 

Are round an' round divided, 
And monie lads and lasses' fates, 

Are there that night decided : 
Some kindle couthy, side by side, 

An' burn thegither trimly : 
Some start awa' wi' saucy pride, 

An' jump out owre the chitnlie 

Fu' high that night. 

Till. 

Jean slips in twa wi' tentle e'e ; 

Wha 'twas, she wadna tell ; 
But this is Jock, an' this is me, 

She says in to hersel' : 
He bleez'd owre her, and she owre him, 

As they wad never niair part ; 
Till fuff ! he started up the lum, 

An' Jean had e'en a sair heart 

To see't that n ; ght. 

IX. 

Poor Willie, wi' his bow-kail runt, 

Was brunt wi ' primsie Mallie ; 
An' Mallie, nae doubt, took the drunt, 

To be compared to Willie ; 
Wall's nit lap cut wi' pridefu' fling, 

An' her ain fit it brunt it ; 
While Willie lap, an' swoor by jing, 

"f was just the way he wanted 
To be that night. 



Nell had the fause-house in her mia % 

She pits hersel' an' Rob in ; 
In loving bleeze they sweetly join. 

Till white in ase they're sobbin' : 
Nell's heart was danciri' at the view, 

She whisper'd Rob to look for't: 
Rob, stowlins prie'd her bonny mou, 

Fu' cozie in the neuk for't, 

Unseen that night. 

XL 

But Merran sat behint their backs, 

Her thoughts on Andrew Bell ; 
She lea'es them gashin' at their cracks, 

And slips out by hersel': 
She thro" the yard the nearest taks, 

An' to the kiln she goes then. 
An' darklins graipit for the bauks, 

And in the blue cluer throws then, 
Right fear't that n 



hr. 



* Burning the nuts is a favourite charm. 
They name the lad and lass to each particular 
nut, as they lay them in the tire, and 
accordingly as they burn quietly together, 
or start from beside one another, the course 
and issue of the courtship will be. 

+ Whoever would, with success, try this 
spell, must strictly observe these directions : 
Steal out, all alone, to the kiln, and, darkling, 
throw into the pot a clue of blue yarn ; wind it 
in a new clue off the old one: and, towards 
the latter end, something will hold the thread, 
demand Wha h'auds ? i. a. who holds ? an an- 
swer will be returned from the kilu-pot, by 
naming the Christian and sirname of your fu- 
ture spouse. 



XII. 



An' aye she win't, an' aye she swat, 

I wat she made nae jaukin'; 
Till something held within the pat, 

Guid L — d J but she was quakin' ! 
But whether 'twas the Deil himsel, 

Or whether 'twas a bauk-en'. 
Or whether it was Andrew Bell, 

She did na wait on talk in' 

To spier that night. 

XIII. 

Wee Jenny to her graunie says, 

" Willyegowi'iiegraunie? 
I'll eat the applei at the glass, 

I gat frae uncle Johnie :" 
She fuff't her pipe wi' sic a lunt, 

In wrath she was sae vap'rin', 
She noticet na, an aizle brunt 

Her braw 



xrv. 

" Ye little skelpie-limmer's face ! 

How daur ye try sic sportiu', 
As seek the foul Thief ony place. 

For him to spae your fortuue ! 
Nae doubt but ye may get a sight ; 

Great cause ye hae to fear it ; 
For monie a ane has gotten a fright, 

An' lived an' died deleeret 

On sic a night. 

XT. 

•* Ae hairst afore the Sherra-moor, 
I mind't as weel's yestreen, 

I was a gilpey then, I'm sure 
I was na past fyfteen : 

The simmer had been cauld an' wat, 
An' stuff w 



An ' aye a 
' I'justo 



egat, 



XYL 

" Our stibble rig was Rab M'Graen, 

A clever, sturdy fellow ; 
He's sin' gat Eppie Sim wi' wean, 

That lived in Achmacalla : 
He gat hemp seed, § I mind it weel, 

An' he made unco light o't ; 

± Take a candle, and go alone to a looking- 
jlass ; eat au apple before it, and some tradl- 
ions say, you should comb your hair all the 
ime ; the face of your conjugal companion, to 
be, will be seen in the glass, as if peeping over 
our shoulder. 
§ Steal out unperceived, and sow a handful 
f hemp-seed ; harrowing it with any thing you 
an conveniently draw after you. Repeat now 
and then, < Hemp-seed I saw thee; hemp-seed 
I saw thee ; and him (or her) that is to be my 
true-love, come after me and pou thee. ' Look 
over your left shoulder, and you will see the 
appearance of the person invoked, in the atti- 
tude of pulling hemp. Some traditions say, 
« come after me, and shaw thee,' that is, show 
thyself: in which case it simply appears. 
Others omit the harrowing, and say, * come 
after me, and harrow thee. ' 



BURNS. -POEMS. 



187 



Bnt monie a day was by himsel', 
He was sae sairly frighted 

That vera night." 

XYII. 

Then up gat fechtin' Jamie Fleck, 

An' he swoor by his conscience, 
That he could saw hemp-seed a peck ; 

For it was a' but nonsense ! 
The auld guid-man raught down the pock, 

An' out a handfu' gied bim ; 
Syne bad him slip frae 'mang the folk, 

Sometime when nae ane see'd him, 
An' try't that night. 

XVIII. 

He marches thro' amang the stacks, 

Tho' he was something sturtin, 
The graip he for a harrow taks, 

An' haurls at his curpin : 
An' every now an' then be says, 

" Hemp-seed I saw thee, 
An' ber that is to be my lass, 

Come after me, and draw thee, 

As fast this night. " 



He whistled up Lord Lennox' march, 

To keep his. courage cheery ; 
Altho' his haif began to arch, 

He was sae fley'd an' eerie : 
Till presently he hears a squeak, 

An' then a grane an' gruntle ; 
He by his shoulder gae a keek, 

An' tumbled wi' a wintle, 

Out owre that night. 

XX. 

He roar'd a horrid murder shout, 

In dreadfu' desperation ! 
An' young an' auld cam rinnin' out, 

To hear the sad narration : 
He swoor 'twas hilchin Jean M'Craw, 

Or crouehie .Verran Huraphie, 
Till stop ! she trotted thro' them a' ; 

An' wha was it but Grumphie 

Asteer that night 1 

XXI. 

Meg fain wad to the barn hae gane, 
To win three wechts o' naetliing ;+ 

But for to meet the deil her lane, 
She pat but little faith in : 



* This charm must likewise be performed 
enperceived, and alone. You go to the barn, 
open both doors, taking them off the hinges, if 
possible; for there is danger that the being 
about to appear, may shut the doors, and do 
you some mischief. Then take that instrument 
used in winnowing the corn, which, in our 
country dialect, vse call a -wecht, nnd go 
through all the attitudes of letting down corn 
against the wind. Repeat it three times; and 
the third time an apparition will pass thrcueh 
the barn, in at the windy door, and out at the 
other, having both the figure in question, and 
the appearance or retinue, marking the em- 
ploy lr.ent or station ic life. 



She gies the herd a pickle nits, 

An' twa red-cheekit apples, 
To watch, while for the barn she sets- 

Lu hopes to see Tam Kipples 

That vera night. 

xx n. 

She turns the key wi' cannie thraw, 

An' owre the threshold ventures; 
But first on Sawnie gies a ca\ 

Syne bauldly in she enters; 
A ratton ratt!ed up the wa', 

An' she cried, L — d preserve her ! 
An' ran thro' midden^hole an' a' . 

An' pra) 'd wi' zeal an' fervour 

Fu' fast that night. 

XXIII. 

They hoy't cut Will, wi' sair advice ; 

Then hecht him some fine braw ane ; 
It chanced the stack he faddom'd thrice f 

Was timmer-prapt for thrawin' ; 
He taks a. swirlie aald moss-oak, 

For some black, gruesome carlin ; 
An' loot a wince, an' drew a stroke, 

Till tkin in blypos cam haurlin 

Aff's uieves that night. 



XXIY. 

A wanton widow Leezie was, 

As canty as a kittlen: 
But Och ! that night amang the shawsj 

She got a fearfu' settlin' ! 
She thro' the whins, an' by the cairn, 

An' owre the hill gaed scrievin',. 
Where three lairds' lauds met at a burn, t 

To dip her left sark-sleeve in, 

Was bent that nisht. 

XXV. 

Whyles ower a linn the burnie plays, 

As thro' the glen it wimpl't : 
Whyles round a rocky scaur it strays ; 

~\\ hyles in a wiel it dhnpl't : 
Whyles glitter'd to the nightly rays, 

Wi' bickering, dancing dazzle ; 
Whyles cookit underneath the braes, 

Below the spreading hazel, 

Unseen that night. 

XXVL 

Amacg the brackens, on the brae, 

Between her an' the moon, 
The deil, or else an outler quey, 

Gat up an' gae a croon ; 



t Take an opportunity of going, unnoticed, 
to a bear-stajk, and fathom it three tijne3 
round. The last fathom of the last time, you 
will catch in your arms the appearance of your 
conjugal yoke-fellow. 

i You go out, one or more, for this is a 
social spell, to a south running spring or rivu- 
let, where ' three lairds' lands meet, ' and dip 
your left shirt sieeve. Go to bed in sight of a 
fire, and hang your wet sleeve before it to dry. 
Lie awake ; and some time near midnight, an 
apparition having the exact figure of the gracd 
object in question, -will come and turn the sleeve 
as :f to dry the other side of it. 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



Poor Leezie's heart maist lap the hool ; 



XXVII. 

la order, on the clean hearth-stane, 

The luggies three * are ranged, 
And ev'ry time great care is ta'en, 

To see them duly changed ; 
Auld uncle John, wha wedlock'3 joys 

Sin Mar*6-year did desire, 
Because he gat the toom-dish thrice, 

He heaved them on the fire, 

In wrath that night. 

XXVIII. 

Wi' merry sangs, an' friendly cracks, 

I wat they didna weary ; 
An' unco tales, and funnie jokes, 

Their sports were cheap an' cheery : 
Till butter 'd so'ns,)- wi' fragrant luut, 

Set a' their gabs a-steerin' ; 
Syne, wi' a social glass o' arunt. 

They parted aff careerin' 

Fu' blythe that night. 



AULD FARMER'S 

NEW- YEAR MORNIKG SALUTATION TO HIS 

AULD MARE MAGGIEj 



A Guid New-year I wish thee, Maggie S 
Hae, there's a ripp to thy auld baggie: 
Tho' thou's howe-backit now an'knaggie, 

I've seen the day, 
Thou could hae gaen like onie staggia 

Out owre the lay. 

Tho' now thou's dowie, stiff, and crazy, 
An* thy auld hide's as white's a daisy, 
I've seen thee dappl't, sleek, an' glaizie, 

A bonnie gray : 
He should been tight that daur't to raize thee 

Ance in a day. 



* Take three dishes, put clean water in one, 
foul water in another, leave the third empty ; 
blindfold a person, and lead him to the hearth 
where the dishes are ranged: he (or she) dips 
the left hand ; if by chance in the clean water, 
the future husband or wife will come to the bar 
of matrimony a maid ; if in the foul, a widow ; 
if in the empty dish, it foretells with equal 
certainty, no marriage at all. It is repeated 
three times, and every time the arrangement 
of the dishes is altered. 

+ Sowens, with butter instead of milk in 
them, is always the Halloween. Supper. 



An' set weel down a shapely shank 
As e'er tred yird ; 

An' could hae flown out-owre a stank, 
Like onie bird. 

It's now some nine-an'-twenty jear 
Sin' thou was my guid father's meere j 
He gied me thee, o' tocher clear, 

An ' fifty mark ; 
Tho' it wa3 sma', 'twas weel-won gear, 

An' thou was stark. 

When first I gaed to woo my Jenny, 
Ye then was trottin' wi' your minnie ; 
Tho' ye was trickie, slee, an' funnie, 

Ye ne'er was donsie, 
But hamely, tawie, quiet, an' cannie, 

Au unco sonsie. 

That day, ye pranced wi' muckle pride, 
When ye bure hame my bonnie bride : 
An' sweet an' gracefu' she did ride, 

Wi' maiden air ! 
Kyle Stewart I could bragged wide 

For sic a pair. 

Tho' now ye dow hut hoyte an' hobble, 
An' wintle like a saumont-coble, 
That day ye was a jiuker noble. 

For heels an' win' ! 
An' ran them till they a' did wauble, 

Far, far behin'. 

When thou an' I were young and skeigh, 
An' stable-meals at fairs were dreigh, 
How thou wad prance, an' snore, an' skreigh, 

An' tak the road ! 
Town's bodies ran, an' stood abeigh, 

An' ca't thee mad. 

When thou was com't, an' I was mellow, 
We took the road aye like a swallow : 
At brooses thou had ne'er a fellow, 

For pith an' speed ; 
But every tail thou pay't them hallow, 

Whare'er thou gaed. 

The sma', droop-rumpl't, hunter cattle, 
Might aiblins waur't thee for a brattle ; 
But sax Scotch miles thou try 'l their mettle, 

An' gar't them whaizle : 
Nae whip nor spur, but just a wattle 

O' saugh or hazel. 

Thou was a noble fittie Ian', 
As e'er in tug or tow was drawn ; 
Aft thee an* I, in aught hours' gaun, 

On guid March weather, 
Hae turned sax rood beside our han', 
For days thegither. 

Thou never braindg't, an* fetch't, an' fliskit. 
But thy auld tail thou wad hae whiskit, 
An' spread abreed thy weel-filled brisket, 

Wi' pith an'pow'r, 
Till spritty knowes wad rair't an' risket, 

An' slypet owre. 

hen frosts lay lang, an* snaws were deep. 
An' threalen'd labour back to keep, 
I gied thy cog a wee bit heap 

Aboon the timnier : 
I ken'd my Maggie wadna sleep 

For that, or sunnier. 






BURNS — POEMS. 



Tn cart or car thou never reestlt ; 
The stevest brae thou wad hae fac't it : 
Thou never lap, and sten't, and breastit, 

Then stood toblaw; 
But, just thy step a wee thin? hastit, 

Thou snoov't awa. 

My pleugh is now thy bairn-time a.' : 
Four gallant brutes as e'er did draw ; 
Forbje sax mae, I've sell't awa, 

That thou hast nurst : 
They drew me thretteen pund an' twa, 

The vera warst. 

Monie a sair daurk we twa hae wrought, 
An' wi' the weary warl' fought ! 
An' monie an anxious day, I thought 

We wad be beat ! 
Yet here to crazy age we're brought, 
Wi' something jet. 

And think na, my anld, trusty servan', 
That now perhaps thou's less deservin', 
An' thy auld days mcy end in starvin', 

For my last fou, 
A heapit stimpart, I'll reserve ane 

Laid by for you. 

We've worn to crazy years thegither ; 
We'll toyte about wi' ane anither; 
Wi' tentie care I'll Hit thy tether, 

To some hain'd rig, 
Whare ye may nobly rax your leather, 

Wi' sma' fatigue. 



TO A MOUSE, 



Wee, sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie 
O what a panic's in thy breastie ! 
Thou need na' start awa sae hastv, 



Wi' murd'ring pattle ! 

I'm truly sorry man's dominion 
Has broken Nature's social union, 
An* justifies that ill opinion 

Which makes thee startle 
At me, thy poor earth-lorn companion 
An' fellow- mortal ! 

I doubt na, whjles, tut thou may thieve ; 
What then ? poor beastie, thou maun live! 
A daimen icker ir. a thrave 

'S a sma' request : 
I'll get a blessin' wi' the lave, 

And never miss't! 



O' foggage gree'i ! 
An' bleak December's winds ensnin', 

Baith snell and keen ! 

Thot saw the fields laid bare an' waste, 
Aa' wiRrj winter coimn' fast, 



An' cozie here beneath the blast; 

Thou thought to dwell, 
Till crash i the cruel coulter past 

Out thro' thy cell. 

That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble, 
Has cost thee mony a weary nibble! 
Now thou's turned out, fora' thy trouble, 

But house or bald, 
To thole the winter's sleety dribble, 

An' cranreuch cauld . 

But Mousie, thou art no thy lane, 
In proving foresignt may be vain : 
The best laid schemes o' mice an' men 

Gang aft agley, 
An' lea'e us nought but grief and pain, 

For promised joy. 

Still thou art blest, compared wi ' me ! 
The present only toucheth'tbee : 
But Och ! I backward cast my e'e 

On prospects dear . 
An' forward, though I canna see, 
I guess an' fear. 



A WINTER NIGHT. 



Poor naked wretches wheresoe'er you are, 
That bide the pelting of this pitiless storm J 
How shall your houseless heads, and unfed 

sides, 
Your loop'd and window'd raggedness, defend 

you 
From seasons such as these ? — Shakspeare. 



When biting Boreas, fell and doure, 
Sharp shivers through the leafless bow'r; 
When Phcebus gi'es a short-lived glow'r 
1 Far south the lift, 

Dim-darkening through the flakv show'r 
Or whirling drift : 

i Ae night the storm the steeples rocked, 
, Poor labour sweet in sleep was locked, 
While burns wi' snawy wreaths up chocked 

Wild-eddying swirl, 
Or through the mining outlet bocked, 
Down headlong hurl. 

List'ning, the doors an' winnocks rattle, 
[ thought me on the ourie cattle. 
Or silly sheep, wha bide ibis brattle 



Ilk happing bird, wee, helpless thing, 
That in the merry month o' spring, 
Delighted me to hear thee sing, 

What comes o' thee » 
Whare wilt thou cow'r thy chittering wing, 

An' close thy e'e ? 

Even you on murd'ring errands toiled, 
Lone from your savage homes exiled, 
The blood-stained roost, and sheep-cote spoiled 
My heart forgets, 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



Now Phebe, in her midnight reign, 
Dark muffled, viewed the dreary plain ; 
Still crowding thoughts, a pensive train, 

Rose in my soul, 
When on my ear this plaintive strain, 

Slow, solemn stole— 

• Blow, blow ye winds, with heavier gust ! 
And freeze, ye bitter-biting frost ; 
Descend, ye chilly, smothering snows ; 
Not all your rage, as now, united, shows 
More hard uukindness, unrelenting, 
Vengeful malice unrepenting, 
Than heaven-illumin'd man oa brother man 
bestows ! 
See stern Oppression's iron grip, 
Or mad Ambition's gory hand. 
Sending, like blood-bounds from the slip, 
Woe, Want, and Murder o'er a land '. 
Even in the peaceful rural vale, 
Truth weeping, tells the mournful tale, 
How pampered Luxury, Flatt'ry by her side, 
The parasite empoisoning her ear, 
With all the servile wretches in the rear, 
Looks o'er proud property, extended wide ; 
And eyes the simple rustic hind, 

Whose toil upholds the glittering show, 
A creature of another kind, 
Some coarser substance, unrefined, 
Placed for her lordly u 3 e thus far, thus vile, 
below. 
Where, where is Love's fond, tender throe, 
With lordly Honour's lofty brow, 

The powers ye proudly own ? 
Is there, beneath Love's noble name, 
Can harbour, dark, the selfish aim, 

To bless himself alone ! 
Mark maiden innocence a prey 

To love-pretending snares, 
This boasting Honour turns away, 
Shunning soft Pity's rising sway, 
Regardless of the tears, and unavailing 
pray'rs! 
Perhaps, this hour, in Mis'ry's squal.d 

She strains your infant to her joyless 

And with a mother's fears shrinks at the rock- 
ing blast ! 

Oh ye ! who, sunk in beds of down, 
Feel not a want but what yourselves create, 
Think, for a moment, on his wretched fate, 

Whom friends and fortune quite disown ; 
Hi-satisfied keec Nature's clamorous callj 

Stretch'd oa his sttaw he lays himself to 
sleep, 
While thro' the ruggad roof> and chinky wall, 

Chill o'er his slumbers piles the drifty 

Think on the dungeon's grim confine, 
Where guilt and poor misfortune pine ! 
Guilt, erring man, relenting view ! 
But shall thy legal rage pursue 
The wretch already crushed low 
By cruel Fortune's undeserved blow ? 
Affliction's sous are brothers in distress, 
A brother to relieve, how exquisite tb.a 
bliss ! * 



But deep this truth impressed my mind — 

Thro' all his works abroad, 
The heart benevolent and kind 

The most resembles God. 



EPISTLE TO DAVIE, 

A BKOTHER POET.* 



I. 



January - 



While winds frae aff Ben-Lomond blaw, 
And bar the doors wi' driving suaw, 

And hing us owre the ingle, 
I set me down to pass the time, 
And spin a verse or twa o' rhyme, 

In namely westlan' jingle. 
While frosty winds blaw in the drift 

Ben to the chimlalug, 
I grudge a wee the great folk's gift, 
That live sae bein and snug : 
I tent less, and want less 

Their roomy fireside ; 
But hanker and canker, 
To see their cursed pride. 

II. 

It's hardly in a body's pow'r 
To keep at times frae being sour, 
To see how things are shared ; 
How best o' chiels are whyles in want, 
coofs on countless thousands rant, 






e ho ■-, 



u your h 



But, Davie 

Tho' we has little gen . 
We're fit to win our daily bread, 
As lang's we're hale and fier : 
' Mair spier na, nor fear iia',f 

Auld age ne'er mind a feg, 
The lasto't, the warst o't, 
is only for to beg. 

III. 

To lie in kilns and barns at e'en, 

When banes are crazed and bluid is thin, 

1 Is, doubtless, great distress! 

Yet then, content could make us blest ; 

Ev'n then sometimes we'd snatch a taste 

Of truest happiness. 
The honest heart that's free frae a' 

Intended fraud or guile, 
However fortune kick the ha', 
Has aye some cause to smile ; 
And mind still you'll find still, 

A comfort this nae sma' .- 
Nae mair then, we'll care tlien, 
Nae farther can we fa' 

IV. 

What though like commoners of air 
We wander out we know not where, 
But either house or hall ? 



* David Siilar, one of theclub at Tarbolton, 
and author of a volume of poems in the Scot- 
tish dialect. 

•f- Ranua;. 



BURNS.— POEMS. 



Yet nature's charms, the hills and woods, 
The sweeping vales, and foaming floods, 

Are free alike to all. 
In days when daisies deck the ground, 

And blackbirds whistle clear. 
With honest joy our hearts will bound, 
To see the coming year. 

On braes when we nlease, then, 

We'll sit and sowih a tune; 

Syae rhyme till't, we'll time till t, 

And slng't when we hae done. 



titles r, 



ronk; 



,. .._j.ith like Lon'on bank, 

To purchase peace and rest ; 

It's no in making muckle mair : 

It's no in books ; it's no in kar, 

To mak us truly blest ! 
If happiness hae not her seat 

And centre in the breast, 
We may be wise, or rich, or great, 
But never can be blest : 

Nae treasures, nor pleasures 
Could mak us happy lang; 
The heart aye's the part aye, 
That makes us right or wrang. 
VI. 
Think ye, that sic as you and I, 
Wha drudge and drive through wet an' dry, 

Wi' never-ceasing toil ; 
Think ye, are we less blest than they, 
Wha scarcely tent us in their way, 

As hardly worth their while ? 

Alas ! how oft in haughty mood, 

God's creatures they oppress ! 

Or else neglecting a' that's guid, 

They riot in excess. 

Baith careless and fearless 
Of either heaven or hell 
Esteeming and deeming 
. It's a' an idle tale I 

VII. 

Then let us cheerfu' acquiesce ; 
Nor make our scanty pleasures less. 

By pining at our state ; 
And, even should misfortunes come, 
I here wha sit, hae met wi' some, 

An's thankfu' for them yet. 

They gie the wit of age to youth ; 

They let us ken ourssl' ; 

They make us see the naked truth, 

The real guid and ill. 

Tho' losses and crosses, 

Be lessons right severe, 
There's wit there, ve'll get there, 
Ye '11 find nae other where. 

VIII. 

But tent me, Davie, ace o' hearts ! 

(To say aught else wad wrang the cartes, 

And flatt'ry I detest) 
This life has joys for you and I ! 
And joys that riches ne'er could buy ; 

And joys the very best. 
There's a' the pleasures o' the heart, 

The lover an ' the frien ' ; 
Ye have your Meg, your dearest part, 
.And I my darling Jean ! 

It warms me, it charms me ; 
To mention but her name ; 
It heats me, it beats me, 
It sets me a' on flame 1 



IX. 



O all ye Powers who rule above ! 
O Thou whose very self art love ! 

Thou knowest my words sincere ! 
The life-blood streaming thro' my heart, 
Or my more dear immortal part, 

Is not more fondly dear ! 
When heart-corroding care and grief 

Deprive my soul of rest, 
Her dear idea brings relief 
And solace to my breast. 
Thou Being, All-seeing, 

O hear my fervent prayer ; 

Still take her, and make her 

Thy most peculiar care I 

X. 

All hail, ye tender feelings dear I 
The smile of love, the friendly tear, 

The sympathetic glow ; 
Long since, this world's thorny ways 
Had number'd out my weary days, 

Had it not been for you ! 
Fate still has blest me with a friend, 

In every care and ill ; 
And oft a more endearing band, 
A tie more tender still. 
It lightens, it brightens 
The tenebiific scene, 
To meet with, and greet with 
My Davie or my Jean. 

XI. 

O, how that name inspires my style! 
The words come skelpin' rank an' file§ 

Amaist before I ken ! 
The ready measure rins as fine, 
As Phffi'uus and the famous Nine 

Were glow'rin owre my pen. 
My spaviet Pegasus will limp, 

Till ance he's fairly het ; 
And then he'll hitch, and stilt, and jimp, 
An rin an unco fit ; 

But lest then, the beast then, 

Should rue his hasty ride, 

I'll light now, and dight now 

His sweaty wizen'd hide. 



THE LAMENT, 



Alas ! how oft does Goodness wound itself, 

And sweet Affection prove the spring of woe 

Home. 



O thou pale orb, that silent shines, 

While care-untroubled mortals sleep ! 
Thou seest a wretch that inly pines, 

And wanders here to wail and ween ! 
With woe I nightly vigils keep, 

Beneath thy wan unwarming beam ; 
And mourn in lamentation deep, 

How life and love are all a dream. 

IL 



192 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



I joyless view thy trembling horn 

Reflected in tile gurgling rill : 
My fondly-fluttering heart be still ! 

Thou busy power, Remembrance, cease ! 
Ah ! must the agonizing thrill 

For ever bar returning peace I 

III. 

No idly feign'd poetic pains, 

My sad. love-lorn lamentiugs claim : 
No shepherd's pipe— Arcadian strains ; 

No fabled tortures, quaint and tame; 
The plighted faith ; the mutual flame ; 

The oft-attested Powers above ; 
The promised Father's tender name; 

These were the pledges of my love J 

IV. 

Encircled in her clasping arms, 

How have the raptured moments flown * 
IIow have I wish'd for Fortune's charms, 

For her dear sake and hers alone ! 
And must I think it ? is she gone, 

My 6ecret heart's exulting boast ! 
And does she heedless hear my groau ! 

And is she ever, ever lost ! 

V. 

Oh ! can she bear so base a heart, 

So lost to honour, lost to truth, 
As from the fondest lover part, 

The plighted husband of her youth ! 
Alas ! life's path may be unsmooth ! 

"Her way may lie thro' rough distress ! 
Then, who her pangs and pains will sooth ! 

Her sorrows share, and make them less ? 

VI. 

Ye winged hours that o'er us past, 

Enraptured more, the more enjoy'd, 
Your dear remembrance in my breast, 

My fondly-treasured thoughts employ 'd. 
That breast how dreary now, and void, 

For her too scanty once of room ! 
Ev'n ev'ry ray of hope destroyed, 

And not a wish to gild the gloom ! 

VII. 

The morn that warns the approaching day, 

Awakes me up to toil and wee : 
I see the hours in long array, 

That I must suffer, lingering, slow. 
Full many a pang, and mp.ny a throe, 

Keen recollection's direful train, 
Must wring my soul, ere Phcebus, low, 

Shall kiss the distant, western main. 

VIII. 

And when my nightly couch I try, 

Sore harass 'd out with care and grief, 
My toil-beat nerves, and tear-worn eye, 

Keep watchings with the nightly thief: 
Or if 1 slumber,"fancy, chief, 

Reigns haggard wild, in sore affright ; 
Ev'n day, all better, brings relief, 

From such a horror-breathing night. 

IX. 

O ! thou bright queen, who o'er th' expanse 
Now highest reign'st, withboundless sway ; 

Oft has thy silent-marking glance 
Observed us fondly wand 'ring, stray : 

The time, unheeded, sped away. 

While love's luxurious pulse' beat high, 



Beneath thy silver-gleaming rar, 
To mark the mutual kindling eye. 



oh: 



x. 



scenes in strong remembrance set 

Scenes, never, never, to return J 
Scenes, if in stupor I forget, 

Again I feel, again I burn ! 
From every joy and pleasure torn, 

Life's weary vale I'll wander thro' ; 
And hopeless, comfortless, I'll mourn 

A faithless woman's broken vow. 



DESPONDENCY: 
AW ODE. 

I. 

Oppress'd with grief, oppress 'd with care, 
A burden more than I can bear, 

1 sit me down and sigh : 

O life 2 thou art a galling loud, 

Along a rough, a weary road, 






retcLe 



:ch 



I! 



Dim backward as I cast n._, .„ 

What sick'ning scenes appear ! 
What sorrows yet may pierce me thro' 
Too justly I may fear ! 
Stiil caring, despairing, 

Must be my bitter doom ; 

My woes here, shall close ne'er, 

Bat with the closing tomb 1 

II. 

Happy, ye sons of busy life, 
Who, equal to the bustling strife, 

No other view regard ! 
Ev'n when the wished end's deny'd, 
Yet while the busy means are ply'd, 

They bring their own reward : 
Whilst I, a hope-abandon 'd wight, 

Unfitted with an aim, 
Meet ev'ry sad returning night, 

And joyless morn the same; 
You,, bustling, andjustling, 
Forget each grief and pain : 

Find ev'ry prospect vain. 

III. 

Kow blest the solitary's lot, 
Who, all-forgetting, all-forgot, 

Whhin his humble cell, 
The cavern wild with tangling reefs, 
Sit* o'er his aewly gather'd frails, 

Beside his crystal well ! 
Or haply, to bis ev'ning thought, 

By unfrequented stream, 
The ways of men are distant brought, 
A faint -collected dream ; 

While praising, and raising 

His thong hts to heaven on high, 
As wand'rhig, meand'ring, 
He views the solemn sky. 

IV. 

Than I, no lonely hermit placed 
Where never human footstep traced, 

Less fit to play the pari ; 
The lucky moment to improve, 
And just to stop, and just to move, 

With self-respecting ar; ; 



BURNS. —P02AIS. 



But ah ! those pleasures, loves, and joys, 

Which I too keenly taste, 
The solitary can despise, 
Can want, and yet be blest ! 
He needs not, he heeds not, 

Or human love or bale, 
Whilst I here must cry here, 
At perfidy ingrate! 



V. 

Oh t enviable, early days, 
When dancing thoughtless pleasui 

To care, to guilt unknown ! 
How ill exchanged for riper times 
To feel the follies, or the crimes, 

Of others or my own : 
Ye tiny elves that guiltless sport, 

Like linnets in the bush, 
Ye little know tne ills ye court, 
When manhood is your wish! 
The losses, the crosses, 

That active men engage I 

The fears all, the tears all, 

Of dim declining age! 



WINTER. 

A DIHOB. 



The wintry west extends his blast, 

And hail and rain does bl.iu ! 
Or, the stormy north sends driving forth 

The blinding sleet and snaw : 
While tumbling brown, the burn comes d< 

And roars frae bank to brae ; 
And bird and beast in covert rest, 

And pass the heartless da). 



II. 

•« Tb« sweeping blast, the sky o'ercast,' 

The joyless winter day, 
Let others fear, to me more dear 

Than all the pride of iVlaj : 
The tempest's howl, it soothes my soul, 

My gnefs it seems to join, 
The leafless trees my fancy please. 

Their fate resembles mine I 



III. 

Thou Power Supreme, whose mighty scheme 

These woes of mine 1'oltil, 
Here, firm, I rest, they must be best, 

Because they are thy will » 
Then all I want (O, do thou grant 

This one request of mine !) 
Since to enjoy thou dost deny, 

Assist me to resign. 



* Dr Yo«D£. 



COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT. 

INSCRIBED TO R. AITKEN, ESQ. 



Let not ambition mock their useful toil. 
Their homely joys and destiny obscure ; 

Nor grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile. 
The short but simple annals of the poor. 
Gray. 



My loved, my honour 'd, much respected 

No mercenary bard his homage pays; 
With hone=t pride I scorn each seltish end: 

Wj dearest meed, a friend's esteem ana 
praise : 
To you 1 sing, in simple Scottish lays, 

The lowly train in life's sequester'd 

The native feelings 6trong, the guileles* 
What Aitken in a cottage would have 



n. 

November chill blaws loud wi* angry sough ; 
The short'ning winter day is near a 

The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh ; 
The black'ning trains o' craws to their 

The toil-worn cotter frae his labour goes, 
This night his weekly moil is at an end. 
Collects his spades, his mattocks, and hi* 

Hoping the morn in ease and rest to 

And weary, o'er the moor, his course doe* 
hameward bend. 

III. 

At length his lonely cot appears in view, 

Beneath the shelter of an aged tree ; 
Th' expectant wee things, toddliu, stacher 
thro' 
To meet their dad, wi* ilichteriu' noise 
a.. » glee. 
His wee bit ingle, Minkin' bonr.ily. 

His clean hearlh-stane, his thriitie wifie'* 

The lisping infant prattling on his knee. 
Does a' his weary carking cares beguile, 
And makes him quite forget his labours an' his 
toil. 



Belyve the elder bairns come drappir.g in. 

At service out amang the farmers roun* ; 
Some cn f the pleugh, some herd, some ten- 



1 youthfu' bloom, love spurUin' in htr 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



Comes harce, perhaps, (o show a bra' new 
on Denny fee. 



i -£'£, :zz::\;ii 



An' 

The =:: L. L:-r ; , *■«:: 
Bed ; 

Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears J 
The parents, partii!, eye their hopeful 

A..: ; •_ i'Joa forward points the v'ew ; 
The mother, wi' her needle an 

. .::: '.. :^ z:.'.L ;\ ;• ■• a.'i --. 



The father mixes a 
TLeLr master's 



ri* admonition due. 
TL 



Aud mind their labours *;' an ejde 

And ne'er, tho' oct o' sight, lo jauk or 
fdaji 

' A:.' C : Li = -f :: :-. : z; L:n -.- ;;• I 
An' mind your doiy, duly, morn aa" 
night! 

Li=: ::■. ■..—.: i: ::.'. 71... ;. r::.; liiri - . 

;...:_: -■--..: j r_: : 

The j r.=ver = .. -J-: ;„ ._; _:....._: _. L.r_ 

■f ghl ! ' 

VII, 
I ;•. '.::_-'.: : - r;; :: - t. r;: 
Jenny, wha tens the meaning o' the 
same, 
Tells how a neehor lad cam o'er the moor, 
To do some errands, and convoy her 

fa IM. 

Sparkle in Jenny's e'e, and flush her 
cheek ; 

YV. '_._:.-... .'.. -.jz.::. : . ;;-. ::_:. ; _. 

"While Jenny rtsfl*»rre is afraid to speak ; 
Wed pleas'd ihemc Ihei hews it's me irfld 

worthless rake. 



nty gees the visit's no ill ta'en ; 
The father cracks of horses, pieughs, and 

kve. 



joy. 



, scarce can weel 



But blate and laithfu 1 
bdfaacn ; 

The mother wi* a woman's wiles can jpy 
"What makes the youth sae bashfd aa* 
sae grave ; 
ffed pieaVd :: dual be* ball -.'. respeeh 1 1 be 
the late. 

IX. 

O happy lore ! where lore like this is found ! 
O heart-felt raprares I b'iss beyond com- 



I've paced much this weary mortal r 
And sage experience bids'tne this th 
' If Heaven a draught ef heavenly pleasure 

One Bonlial ■ due ~i'.-.z:'z'.j niaj 
Tis when a youthful loving re; _ et 
la ether's arms breathe out the tender 



Is there, in human form, that bears a 
heart — 
A w retch 1 a villain ! lost to lore and 
troth! 
That can.wilh studied, sir, ensnaring art, 

Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting ycusii? 
Curse on his pe.jured arts! dissembling 

Are honour, virtue, conscience 
L, there no pity, no reienticg ruth, 

!-:.„■- •; :_= ._:;_:. :;-_.._; : '-■ :L- : 
child .' 
Then paints the ruin'd maid, and their dis- 
traction wild ? 

XT. 
Bat now the supper crown. 

the halesoa - paui l rk , dual c' Scotia's 
food: 

I_t ;: • ::..-'.: ii ' - - ... : : .; if '. : : 

That yont the haiian snugly chows h.r 
eood: 
The dame brings forth in complimeutai 

To grace the lad, her weel-haia'd faeb- 
Luck fell, 
An' aft he's prest, an' aft he ca's it guid ; 
The frugal wifie, garrulous, wiU tell. 
How 'twas a tonoad au-a, s.n' lint was P 
i_e .-... 

XII. 
The cheerfu* supper done, wi* serious face, 
They, round "the ing'.e, form a circle 
wide; 
- 
The big ha'-Bu-ie, ance his father's 

His bounet rev'rently is laid aside, 

His lyart hafiets wearing thi:. 
] - e rubs thai : f* aa sweet in Z.c.-i 

He wales a portion •with judicious eare ; 

s worship God!' he says, with 
solemn air. 

xm. 

They ehant their artles3 Botes 
"euUe ; 
They tune their hearts, by far the noblest 

Perhaps Dundee's wiid warbling measure; 

Or plain) -by of the 

Ct noble I heav'u-ward 

flame, 

. ; est far of Scotia's holy lays ; 
Compared with these, Italian trilb are 



BURxN'S POEMS. 



The tickled ears no heart-felt raptures 
Nae unison hae they with our Creator's praise. 

XIV. 

The priest-like father reads th« sacred page, 
How Abram was the friend of God on 

Or, Moses bade eternal warfare wage 

With Amalek's ungracious progeny ; 
Or how the royal bard did groaning lis 
Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging 
ire; 
Or, Job's pathetic plaint and wailing cry ; 
Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire ; 
Or other holy seers that tunc the sacred lyre. 



Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme, 
How guiltless blood for guilty man was 
shed; 
How He, who bore in heaven the second 

Had not on earth whereon to lay his head ; 
How his first followers and servants sped ; 
The precepts sage they wrote to many a 
laud: 
How he, who lone in Paimos banished, 
Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand ; 
And heard great Bab 'Ion's doom pronounced 
by Heaven's command. 



The saint, the father, and the husbai 
prays : 
Hope « springs exulting on triumphant 

That thus they all shall meet in future 
days: 
There ever bask in uncreated rays, 

IVo more to sigh or shed the bitter tear, 
Together bymning iheir Creator's praUe, 
In such society, yet still more dear ; 
While circling time moves round in an eternal 
sphere. 

Compared 
pride, 

In all the pomp of method, and of art, 
When men display to congregations wide, 

Devotion's ev'ry grace, except 'he heart ! 
The Pow'r incensed the pageant will desert, 

The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole ; 
But haply, in some cottage far apait, 

May hear, well-pleased, the language of 

And in his book of life the inmates poor enrol. 

xviir. 

Then homeward all lake off their sev'ral 
way ; 

The youngling cottagers retire to rest, 
The parent pair their secret homage pay. 

And proffer up to Heav'n the warm re- 

That He who stills the raven's clam'rous 
And decks the lily fair in flow 'ry pride, 



* Pope's Windsor Forest. 



Would in the way his wisdom sees the best. 
For them and for their little ones provide ; 
But chiefly in their hearts with grace divine 
preside. 

XIX. 

From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur 
springs, 
That makes her loved at home, revered 
abroad : 
Princes and lords are but the breath of 
kings, 
«« An honest man's the noblest work of 
God!" 
Andcertes, in fair virtue's heavenly road, 

The cottajre leaves the palace far behind ; 
What is a lordling's poiup ! a cumb'rous 

Disguising oft the wretch of human kind, 
Studied in arts of hell, iu wickedness refined I 

XX. 

O Scotia ! my dear, my native soil, 

For whom my warmest wish to Heaven 



live* 

Then, howe'er crowns and coroutis be rent, 
A virtuous populace may rise the while, 
And stand a wall of fire around their much- 
loved Isle. 

XXL 

Thou ! who pour'd (he patriotic tide, 
That stream 'd thro' Wallace's undaunted 

Who dared to nob'y stem tyrannic pride, 
Or nobly die, the second glorious part, 
(The patriot's God, peculiarly thou art, 
His friend, iuspirer, guardian, and re- 
ward ! ) 
O never, never, Scotia's realm desert ; 
But still the patriot and the patriot bard, 
In bright succession raise, her ornament and 
guard! 



MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN. 

A riRGB. 

I. 

When chill November's surly blast 

Made fields and forests bare, 
One ev'ning, as I wander'd forth 

Along the banks of Ayr, 
I spy'd a man, whose aged step 

Seem'd wtary, worn with care; 
His face \sas furrow 'd o'er with years, 

And hoary was hisltair. 

II. 

Yonng stranger, whither wand'rest thou! 

Began the rev 'rend sage ; 
Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain, 

Or youthful pleasure's rage • 
Or, haply, prest with care, and wees, 

Too soon thou hast began 
To wander forth, with me to mourn 

The miseries of man ! 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



I1L 



The sun that overhangs yon moors, 

Out-spreading far and wide, 
Where hundreds labour to support 

A haughty iordling's pride ; 
I've seen yon weary winter-sun 

Twice forty times return ; 
And ev'ry time has added proofs 

That man was made to mourn. 

IV. 

O man ! white in thy early years, 

How prodigal of time ! 
Mispending all thy precious hours; 

Thy glorious youthful prime ! 
Alternate follies take the sway ; 

Licentious passions burn ; 
Which tenfold force give Nature's 1( 

That man was made tc mourn. 



Look not alone on youthful prime. 

Or manhood's active might ; 
Man then is useful to his kind, 

Supported is his right : 
But see him on the edge of life, 

With cares and sorrows worn, 
Then age and want, Oh! ill-match'd p 

Show man was made to mourn. 

VI. 

A few seem favourites of fate, 

In pleasure's lap carest; 
Yet, think not all the rich and great 

Are likewise truly blest. 
But, Oh ! what crowds in every land, 

Are wretched and forlorn ; 
Thro' weary life this lesson learn, 

That man was made to mourn. 

VII. 

Many and sharp the num'rous ills, 

Inwoven with our frame '. 
More pointed still we make ourselves, 

Regret, remorse, and shame ! 
And man, whose heaven-erected face 

The smiles of love adorn, 
Man's inhumanity to man, 

Makes countless thousands mourn ! 

VIII. 

See yonder poor, o'eriaboured wight, 

So abject, mean, and vile, 
Who begs a brother of the earlh 

To give him leave to loil ; 
And see his lordly fellow-worm 

The poor petition spurn, 
Unmindful tho' a weeping wife 

And helpless offspring mourn 

IX. 

If I'm designed yon lordling's slave- 
By Nature's law design 'd, 

W hy wi§ an independent wish 

E'er planted in my mind? 

' why am I subject io 



His 



ruelty o 



rhis partial view of human-kind 

Is surely not the last ! 
The poor, oppressed, honest man, 

Had never, sure, been born. 
Had there not been some recompense 

To comfort those that mourn J 

xr. 

O Death ! the poor man's dearest friend* 

The kindest and the best ! 
Welcome the hour my aged limbs 

re laid with thee at rest. 
The great, the wealthy, fear thy blow. 

From pomp and pleasure torn ; 
But Oh ! a blest relief to those 

That weary-ladeu, mourn S 



A PRAYER 

IN THE PROSPECT OF DEATH. 



O thou unknown Almighty Cause 
Of all my hope and fear ! 

[n whose dread presence, ere an he 
Perhaps I must appear ! 



[f I have wander'd in those paths 

Of life I ought to shun: 
As something loudly, in mj breast, 
Remonstrates I have done ; 



Thou know'st that Thou hast formed m« 

With passions wild and strong; 
And listening to their witching voice. 



Where human weakness has come 

Or frailty stept aside, 
Do thou Ail Good '. for such thou a 

In shades of darkness hide. 



Where with intention 1 have err'd, 
! No other plea I have, 
Hut Thou art good ; and goodness still 
Del ghteth to forgive. 



STANZAS 

ON THE SAME OCCASION. 

Why am I lo.ith to leave this earthly 
Have I so found it full of pleasing 

Some drops of joy with draughts of ill be- 
Some gleams of sunshine 'mid renewed 

Is it departing pangs my soul alarms ; 

Or death's unlovely, dreary, dark abode? 
For guilt, for guilt, my terrors are in arms ; 
I tremble to approach an angry God, 
And justly smart beneath his sin.- avenging rod. 



BURNS.- POEMS. 



Fain would I say, • Forgive my foul of- 
fence 1' 
Fain promise never more to disobey ; 
Bui, should my Author health again dis- 

Again I might desert fair virtue's way ; 
Again in foily's path might go astray ; 

Again exalt the bruie and sink the man ; 
Then how should 1 for heavenly mercy 
pray, 
Mho act so counter heavenly mercy's 
plan? 
Who tin so oft have mourned, yet to tempta- 
tion ran ? 

O Thou great Governor of all below, 
If I may dare a lifted eye to Thee, 

Thy nod can make the tempest cease to 
blow, 
Or still the tumult of the raging sea ; 

With that controlling pow'r assist ev'n 
Those headlong furious passions to 

Fcr all unfit I feel my pow'rs to be, 

To rule their lorrent in th' allowed line ; 
O aid me with thy help. Omnipotence Divine! 



TillZ FIRST PSALM. 



The man, in life wherever placed, 

Hath happiness in store, 
"Who walks not in the wicked's way, 

Nor learns their guilty lore '. 

Nor from the seat of scornful pride 
Casts forth his eyes abroad, 

But with humility and awe 
Still walks before his God. 

That man shall flourish like the trees 
Which by the streamlets grow ; 

The fruitful top is spread on high, 
Aid firm the root below. 

But he whose blossom buds in gnilt 
Shall to the ground be cast. 

And like the rootless stubble, toss'd 
Before the sweeping blast. 

For why ? that Cod the good adore 
Hath giv'n them peace and res!, 

But hath decreed that wicked men 
Shall ne'er be truly blest. 



LYING AT A REVEREND FRIEND'S HOUSE 
ONE NIGHT, THE AUTHOR LQT THE 
FOLLOWING 



IN THE ROOM WHERE HE SLEPT- 



Thou Great Being ! what thou art 



O Thou dread Pow'r who reign'st above, 

I know thou wilt me hear, 
When from this scene of peace and love, 

J malce my prayer sincere. 



The hoary sire— the mortal stroke 
Long, long be pleased to spare, 

To bless his little filial flock, 
And show what good men are. 

III. 

She, who her lovely offspring eyes 
With tender hopes and fears," 

O bless her with a mother's joys. 
But spare a mother's tears ! 



Thy creature here before thee stands 
All wretched and distrest ; 

5fet sure those ills that wring my soul 
Obey thy high behest. 

Sure thou, A'migbty, canst not act 

From cruelty or wrath ! 
free raj weary eyes from tears, 

Or close them fast iu death ! 

But if I must afflicted be. 



Their hope, their stay, their darling youth, 
In manhood's dawning blush ; 

Bless him, thou God of love aud truth, 
Up to a parent's wish I 



The beauteous, seraph sister-band, 

With earnest tears I pray, 
Thou know'st the snares on ev'ry hand, 

Guide thou their steps alway I 

VL 

When soon or late they reach that coast, 
O'er life's rough ocean driv'n, 

May they rejoice, no wand'rer lost, 
A family in Heav'n ! 



THE FIRST SLX VERSES OF 

THE NINETIETH PSALM. 

O Thou, the first, the greatest Friend 

Of all the human race ! 
Whose strong right hand has ever been 

Their stay and dwelling place ! 

Before the mountains heaved their heads 

Beneath thy forming hand. 
Before this pond'rous globe itself 

Arose at thy command; 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



Those mighty periods of years, 

WhiclTseem to us so vast, 
Appear no more before thy sight, 

Than yesterday that's pasC 

Tbou gav'st the word : Thy creature. 

Is to existence brought : 
Again thou sny'st, • Ye sons of men, 
"Return ye into nought ! ' 

Thou layest them, with all their cares, 

In everlasting sleep ; 
As with a flood thou tak'st them off 

With overwhelming sweep. 

They flourish like the morning flow'r. 

In beauty 's pride array 'd ; 
Bat long ere night, cut down, it lies 

Ail wither'd and decay'd. 



TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY, 



Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r, 
Thou's met me in an evil hour : 
For I maun crush amang the stoare 

Thy slender stem ; 
To spare thee now is past my pow'r, 

Thou bonnie gem. 

Alas ! it's no thy neebour sweet, 
The bonny Lark, companion meet! 
Bending thee 'mar.g the dewy weet 

Wi* spreckVd breast, 
When upward-springing, blithe, to greet 

The purpling east. 

Cauld blew the bitter-biting north, 
L r pon thy early, humble birth ; 
Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth 

Amid the storm, 
Scarce reared above the parent earth 

Thy tender Gnu 

The flaunting flow 'rs onr gardens yield. 
High shelt'ring woods and wa's maun shield 
But thou beneath the random bield 



There, in thy scanty mantle clad, 
Thy snawy bosom sun-ward spread, 
Thou lifts thy unassuming head 

In humble guise ; 
But now the share uptears thy bed, 

And low thou lies t 

Such is the fate of artless Maid, 
Sweet floweret of the rural shade I 
By lcve's simplicity betray 'd. 

And guileless trust, 
rill she, like thee, all soil'd, is laid 

Lew i* fhe'dogt 



Such is the fate of simple Bard, 
On life's rough ocean luckless starr'd, 
Unskilful he to note the card 

Of prudent lore, 
Till billows rage, and gales b'.ow hard 

And whelm him o'er i 

Such fate to suffering worth is given, 
Who long with wants and woes has sirii 
By human pride or cunning driven 



Even then who mourn 'st the Daisy \ fa 
That fate i? thine— no distant date: 
Stern Ruin's plough-share drives, elate, 

Full on thy bloom, 
Till crush' J beneath the furrow's weight, 

Shall be thy doom ! 



All hail I inexorable lord ! 

At whose destruc-.ion-breathir.g word. 

The mightiest empires fall ! 
Thy cruel, wee-ceiighted train, 
The ministers of grief and pain, 

A sullen welcome, all ! 
With stern-reso'.v'd, despairing eye, 

I see each aimed dart ; 
For one has cut my dearest tie, 
And quivers in my heart. 
Then lew'ring and pouring, 

The storm no mere I dread ; 
Tho* thick'ning and blaek'ning, 
Round my devoted head. 

IT. 

And thou grim power, by life abhorr'd, 
While life a pleasure can aScrd, 

Oh ! hear a wretch's prayer : 
No more I shrink appall'd, afraid j 
I court, I beg thy friendly aid, 

To close this scene of care ! 
When shall my soul, in silent peace, 

Resign life's joy '-ess day ; 
Mj a eary heart its throbbings cease, 

Cold monld'ring in the clay ; 

' To stain mi lifeless (ace 5 



Again the silent wheels of time, 

Their annual round have driven, 
And you, tho' scarce in maiden prime, 



BURNS. -POEMS. 



Our sex with guile and faithless love 
Is charged, perhaps, too true ; 

But may, dear maid, each lover prove 
An Edwin still to you ! 



EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND. 
MAY ,1786 



I lang hae thought, my youthfu' friend, 

A something to have sent you, 
Tho' it should serve nae other end 

'lhan just a kind memento ; 
But how the subject theme may gang, 

Let time and chance determine ; 
Perhaps it may turn out a sang, 

Perhaps turn out a sermon. 

II. 

Ye'll try the warld soon, my lad, 

And, Andrew dear, believe me, 
Ye'll find mankind an unco squad, 

And muckle they may grieve ye ; 
For care and trouble set your thought, 

E'en when your end's attained; 
An a' your views may come to nought, 

Where ev'ry nerve is strained. 

III. 

I'll no say, men are villains a' ; 

The real, harden 'd wicked, 
Wha hae nae check but human law, 

Are to a few restricked : 
But och, mankind are unco weak, 

An ' little to be trusted ; 
If self the wavering balance shake, 

It's rarely right adjusted. 

IV. 

Yet they wha fa' in fortune's strife. 

Their fate we should na censure, 
For stiil the important end of life 

They equally may answer. 
A man may hae an honest heart, 

Tho' poortith hourly stare him j 
A man may tak a neebor's part, 

Yet hae nae cash to spare him. 



Aye free aff han' your story tell, 
When wi' a boscm crony ; 

But still keep something to yoursel' 
Ye scarcely tell to ony. 

Conceal yoursel' as weel's ye eaa 
*"* critical dissectio- - 



But keek thro' every other man, 
Wi* sharpen 'd sly inspection. 

VL 

The sacred lowe o' weel-placed love, 

Luxuriantly indulge it ; 
But never tempt th* illicit rove, 

Tho' naething should divulge it : 
I wave the quantum o' the sin. 

The hazard of concealing ; 
But och I it hardens a' within, 

And petrifies the feeling ! 

VII. 



And gather gear by ev»ry wile. 
That's justified by honour; 

Not for to hide it in a hedge, 
Nor for a train-attendant ; 

But for the glorious privilege 
Of being independent. 

VIII. 

The fear o' hell's a hangman's whip, 

To baud the wretch in order; 
But where ye feel your honour grip. 

Let that aye be your border ; 
Its slightest touches, instant pause — 

Debar a' side pretences ; 
And resolutely keep its laws, 

Uncaring consequences. 

IX. 

The great Creator to revere. 

Must sure become the creature ; 
But still the preaching cant forbear, 

And ev 'n the rigid feature : 
Yet ne'er with wits profane to rang*, 

Be complaisance extended ; 
An Atheist's laugh's a poor exchange 

For Deity ofiended ! 



When ranting round in pleasure's ring, 

Religion may be blinded! 
Cr, if she gie a random sting, 

It may he little minded : 
But when on life we're tempest driven, 

A conscience but a canker — 
A correspondence fix'd wi' Heaven, 

Is sure a noble anchor. 

XI. 



youi' brow undauntiug I 
In ploughman phrase, « God send you cpeea, ' 

Still ^aily to grow wiser ; 
And may you better reck the rede, 

Than ever did th' adviser I 



ON A SCOTCH BARD 

GOXE TO THE WEST INDIES- 

A* ye wha live by soups o' drink, 
A' ye wha live by crambo-clink, 
A' ye wha live and never think, 

Come mourn wi' me ! 
Our billie's gi'en us a' a jink, 

An' owre the sea. 

Lament h'm, a' ye ranlin' core, 
W 7 ha dearly like a random splore, 
Nae mair he'll join the merry roar, 

In social key ; 
For now he's ta'en anither shore, 

An' owre the sea. 

The bonnie lassies weel may miss him, 
And in their dear petitions place him : 
The widows, wives, an' a' mav bless htm, 

Wi' tearfu' e'e; 
For weel I wut they'll sairly misshinfu 
That's own the MS. 



200 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



O Fortcce, they hae room to grumble ! 
a'eaiff some drowsy bummei, 
Ao nought but fyke an* fumble, 

~'Twad teen nae p'.ea ; 
But he was g'.eg as ony wamble, 



Tfcal 



e the s 



.:• t;e E\le may weepers wear, 
An' Btaia them wi' the saut, saut tear ; 
Twiii mak' her poor auld heart, I fear, 

He wis her laureate monie a year, 

Thai's owre "the sea. 

He saw misfortune's cauld nore-wast 
La:.£ mustering up a bitter ( . 
A jiiiet brak' his heart at last, 

111 may she be ! 
So, tooi a birth afore the mast, 

An' owre the sea. 

To tremlle und^r Fortune's cnmaiock, 
Oa scarce a beilyfu' o" drommock, 
-roud independent stomach 
Could iU agree ; 
So row't his hurdies in a hammock, 
Aa' owre the sea. 

He ne'er was gi'en to great ■ 
Y:. .:. Us pouches wad na bidein : 
il Lc'c; was under hiding; 
He dealt it fin : 
The muse was a' that he took pride in, 
That's owre the sea. 

Jamaica bodies, use him wee!, 
An* hap him in a cozie biel ; 
Yell liud hiai aye a dainty chiel. 

And fu' •»' glee : 
He wacua WTang'd the Tera deil, 

That's owre the tea. 

Fare wee', mv rhyme-corn-,:; 
Your native sofi was right ill willie ; 
But may >e boorish like a lily, 

H l i.^LLnihe ; 
11! toast re ia my hindmost gillie, 

Tho' owre the sea. 



TC A HAGGIS. 

Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face, 
Great chieftain o' the puddin-race, 
Awor them a' ye tak your place, 

ripe, or thatr 
Wee! are ye word\ of a grace 

As lang's my arm. 

The eroanins trencher there ye fill, 
Y'our hurdies hke a distant hill, 
Tou pin wad heh> to menc i 

In time o' need. 
While thro' your pores the dews distil 

Like am Iter bead. 



Trenchii-g your gushing entrails bright. 
Like ouie ditch ; 

Aad then, what a glorious sight, 

Warm-r#ekin, ri«h ! 



Then horn for horn they stretch an* strive? 
Deil tak the h'ndmost, ca tbev drive, 

Are bent like drums : 
Then auld guidman, roaist like to r»\e, 
' ■ it hams ; 



Is there that o'er bis French ragout, 
Or olio that wad staw a sow, 
Or fricassee wad mak her spew, 

Wi' perfect sconner. 
Looks down wi' sneering, scornfu' view, 

On sic a dinner ? 

Poor devil ! see him owre his trash, 
*s feckless as a wither'd rash, 
His spindle-shank a guid whip lash, 



Bnt mark the rustic, hagsis-fed, 
The. trembling earth resounds his tread, 
Clap in his walie nieve a blade, 

He'll make it whissk ; 
An* legs, an' arms, an' heads will sned, 
Like taps o' thrusle. 

Ye Pow'rs wha mak mankind your cars. 
And dish ihem out the r biil o* fare, 

Au._ Scotland -rfar.ts nae -kicking ware 
That jaups in luggies ; 

But, if ye wish her gratefu' pray'r, 
Gie her a Haggis ! 



A DEDICATION. 
TO GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ. 

Expect na, Sir, in th : s narration, 
A fieechin, fleth'riu dedication, 
To rooze you up, an' ca' you guid, 
An' sprung o' great an' noble bluid, 
Because >e're surnamed like his grace. 
Perhaps related to the race ; 
Then when I'm tired — and sae are je, 
Wi' mony a fulsome, sinfu* lie, 
Set up a face, how I stop short, 
For fear your modesty be hurt. 

This may do — maun do, Sir, wi' thera mim 
Maun piease the great folk for a wamefu' j 
For me ! sae la ga I acndaa row, 
For, Lord be lhankit, I can plough ; 
And when I dmaa yoke a aaig, 
Then, Lord be thankit, I can beg ; 
Sae I stall .-a) , and that's nae flatt'rin *, 
It's just sic poet an' sic patron. 

The Poet, some guid angel help him. 
Or eise, 1 fear some ill ane skelp him ; 
He may do weel for a' he's done yet, 
But only he's no just begun yet. 

The Patron, (Sir, ve roan forgie me, 
I winna lie, come what will o* me) 
On ev'ry hand it will allowed be, 
He's just — nae better than he should bet 



BURNS — POEMS, 



WhuOi no his ain he winna tak it : 
"What ance he says he winna break it ; 
Ought he can lend he'll no refuse't, 
Till aft his goodness is abused ; 
And rascals wbyles lhat do him wrang, 
Ev'n that, he dees na mind it lang ; 
As master, landlord, husband, father, 
He does na fail his part in either. 

But then, nae thanks to him for a* that ; 
Nae godly symptom ye can ca' that ; 
It's naething but a milder feature, 
Of our poor, sinfu', corrupt nature 
l'e'll get the best o' moral works, 
Mang black Gentoos and pagan Turks, 
Or hunters wild on Pouotaxi 
Wha never heard of orthodoxy. 
That he's the poor man's friend in need, 
The gentleman iu word and deed, 
It's no thro' terror of damnation ; 
It's just a carnal inclination. 

Morality, t&ou deadly bane, 
Thy tens o' thousands thou hast slain ! 
Yain is bis hope, whose stay ai.d trust is 
In moral mercy, truth, and justice! 

No— stretch a point to catch a plack ; 
Abuse a brother to his back ; 
Steal thro a winnock frae a whore, 
But point the rake that (aks the door : 
Be to the poor like onie whunstane, 
And haud their noses to the gruustane ; 
Ply every art o' legal thieving ; 
No matter, stick to sound believing. 

Learn three mile pray'rs, an' half-mile 
graces, 
Wi' weel-spreai looves, an' lang, wry face ; 
Grunt up a solemn, lengthen'd groan, 
And damn a' parties but yojr own ; 
1*11 warrant then, ye're nae deceiver, 
A steady, sturdy, staunch believer. 

O ye wha leave the springs of Calvin, 
For gumlie dubs of your ain delvin t 
s of heresy and e 

And in thehre throws the sheath ; 
When Ruin with his sweeping besom, 
Just frets till Heav'n commission gies hin 
While o'er the harp pale Misery moans, 
Aud strikes the ever-deep'ning tones, 
Still louder shrieks, aud heavier groans 5 

Your pardon, Sir, for this digression, 
I maist forgat my dedication ; 
But when divinity comes cross me. 
My readers still are sure to lose me. 

So, Sir, ye see 'twas nae daft vapour. 
But I maturely thought it proper, 
When a' my works I did review, 
To dedicate them, Sir, to you : 
Because (ye need na tak it ill) 
I thought them something like yoursel'. 

Then patronise them wi' your favour, 
And your petitioner shall ever — 
1 had amaist said ever pray, 
But that's a word I need na say t 
For prayin' I hae little skill o't ; 
I'm bairh dead-aweer, an* wretched ill o'l 



" May ne'er misfortune's gowling bark, 
Howl thro' the dwelling o' the Clerk ! 
May ne'er his gen'rous, honest heart 
For that same gen'rous spirit smart ! 

Way K. 's far honour'd name 

Lang beet his hymeneal flame, 

Till H s at least a dizen, 

Are frae her nuptial labours risen : 
Five bonnie lasses round their table. 
And seven braw fellows, 6tout an' able 
To serve their king and country weel, 
By word, or pen, or pointed steel ! 
May health and peace, with mutual rays. 
Shine on the evening o' his days : 
Till his wee curlie John's ier-oe, 
When ebbing life nae inaif shall flow. 
The last, sad, mournful rites bestow I" 



I will n 



mg conclusion, 



But whilst your wishes and endeavours 
Are bless'd with Fortune's smiles and favours* 
I am, dear Sir, with zeal most fervent. 
Your much indebted humble servant. 

But if (which Pow'rs above prevent!) 
That iroa-hearted carl, Want, 
Attended in his grim advances, 
I?y sad mistakes, and black mischances, 
While hopes, and joys, and pleasures fly him, 
Make you as poor a dog as I am, 
Your humble servant then no more ; 
For who would humbly serve the poor ! 
But by a poor man's hopes in Heaven ! 
While recollection's power is given, 
If„ in the vale of humble life, 
The victim sad of fortune's strife, 
I, thro' the tender gushing tear, 
Should recognize my master dear, 
If friendless low we meet together. 
Then, Sir, your hand — my friend and brothwrt 



TO A LOUSE, 



Ha ! whare ye gann, ye crowlin* ferlle ? 
Your impudence protects you sairly : 
1 canna say but ye struut rarely, 

Owre gauze and lace ; 
Tho' faith, I fear ye dine but sparely 

On sic a place. 

Ye Ugly, creepin', blastit wonner, 
Detested, shunn'd by saunt an' sinner. 
How dare you set your tit upon her, 

Sae tine a lady ! 
Gae somewhere else and seek your dinner. 

On some poor body. 

Swith, in some beggar's haffet squatfle $ 
There ye may creep, and sprawl, and sprat 
Wi' ither kindred, jurupin' cattle, 

In shoals and nations I 
Whare horn nor bane ne'er dare unsettle 

Your thick plantations. 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



Now haud you there, ye're out o' eight, 
Below the fatt'rils, suug an' tight t 
No, faith ye yet ! ye '11 no be right 

Till ye're got ou it, 
The rery tapmost tow 'ring height 

O' Miss's bonnet. 

My sooth ! right bauld ye set your noes c 
As plump and grey as oaie grozet ; 

for some rank, mercurial rozet, 

Or fell, redsmeddum, 
I'd gi'e you sic a hearty dose o't, 

Wa.d dress your drodduia 

1 wad na been surprised to spy 
You on an auld wife's flannen toy ; 
Or aiblins some bit duddie boy, 

On's wyliecuat ; 
But Miss's fine Lunardie '. tie, 

How dare ye do't! 

O Jenny, dinna toss your head, 
An' set your beauties a' abread ! 
Ye little ken what cursed speed 

The blastie's makia', 
Thae winks and linger ends, I dread, 



Aren 



s uki : . 



O wad some power the giftie gie us, 

It wad frae tuonie a blunder free us, 
And foolish notion : 

What airs in cress an' gait wad iea'e 
And ev'n Devotion ! 



ADDRESS TO EDINBURGH. 

I. 

Edina ! Scotia's darling seat ! 

All hail thy palaces and lowers^ 
Where once, beneath a monarch's feet, 

Sat legislation's sovereign powers ! 
From marking wildly scatter'd flowers, 

As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd, 
And singing, lone, the lingering hours, 

I shelter in ihy honour'tl shade. 

II. 
Here wealth still swells the golden tide, 

As busy trade his labours plies ; 
There architecture's noble pride 

Bids elegance and splendour rise; 
Here justice, from her native skies, 

High wields her balance and her rod ; 
There learning, with his eagle eyes, 

Seeks science in her coy abode. 

III. 

Thy sons, Edina, social, kind, 

With open arms the stranger hail ; 
Their views enlarged, their liberal mind, 

Above the narrow, rural vale j 
Attentive still to sorrow's wail, 

Or modest merit's silent claim ; 
And never may their sources fail ! 

And never envy blot their name* 

IV. 

Thy daughters bright thy walks adorn '. 

Gay as the gilded summer sky, 
Sweet as the dewy milk-white thorn, 

Dear as the raptured thrill of joy '. 



Fair Burnet strikes th' adoring eye, 
Heaven's" beauties on my fancy shin 

I see the Sire of love on high, 
And own his work indeed divine! 



There, watching high the least alarms, 

Thy rough rude fortress gleams afar : 
Like some bold veteran grey in arms, 

And mark'd with mauy a seamy scar : 
The pond'rous wall and massy bar, 

Grim-rising o'er the rugged rock : 
Have oft withstood assailing war, 

And oft repell'd th' invader's shock. 

VL 

With awe-struck thought and pitying tear; 

- view that noble, stately dome, 
Where Scotia'o kings of other years, 

Famed heroes, had their royal home. 
Mas ! how changed the times to come I 

Their royal name low in the dust ; 
Their hapless race wild wand'ring roam J 

Tho' rigid law cries out, 'twas just .' 

VIL 

Wild beats my heart to trace your steps. 

Whose ancestors in days or yore, 
Thro' hostile ranks and ruined gaps 

Old Scotia's bloody lion bore : 
E'en I who sing in rustic lore, 

Haply my sires have left their shed, 
And faced grim danger's loudest roar, 

Bold following where your fathers Jed. 

VIII. 

Edina ! Scotia's darling seal ' 

All hail thy palaces and low'rs, 
Where once, beneath a monarch's feet, 

Sat legislation's sovereign powers ! 
Frum marking wildly scatter'd flowers, 

As on the banks of A,)r I stray'd, 
And singing, lone, the lingering hours, 

I shelter'd in thy honour'd shade. 



EPISTLE TO J. LAPRAIK, 

AN OLD SCOTTISH BARD; APRIL 1st, 17S6. 

While briers an' woodbines budding green. 
An' paitricks scraichin loud at e'en, 
* * morning poussie whiddin seen, 

Inspire my muse, 
This freedom in an unknown frien', 

I pray excuse. 

On fasten-een we had a rockin', 
To ca' the crack, and weave ourstockiu' ; 
And there was muckle fun and jokin'. 
Ye need na doubt : 
ength we had a hearty yokin' 
At sang about. 

There was ae sang amang the rest, 
Aboon them a' it pleased me best, 
That some kind husband had address 'd 

To some sweet wife : 
It thirl'd the heart-strings thro' tb* breast* 

A' to the life. 



BURNS — POEMS. 



I've scarce heard ought described sae weel, 
What gen'rous, manly bosoms feel ; 
Thought I, ' Can this be Pope, or Steele, 

fir Roattie'a nnrlt V 

They tanld d 



Or Beattie's wark ?' 
twas an odd kind chiel 
About Muirkirk. 



It pat me fidgin-fain to hear't, 
And sae about him there I spiert, 
'lhen a* that ken't him, round declared 

He had ingine, 
That nane excell'd it, few cam near't, 

It was sae line. 

That set him to a pint of ale, 
An' either douce or merry tale, 
Or rhymes an' sangs he'd made himsel*, 

Or witty catches, 
*Tween Inverness and Teviotdale, 

He had few matches. 

Then up I gat, an' swoor an aith, 
Tho' I should pawn my pleugh an' graith. 
Or die a cadger pownie's death, 

At some dyke back, 
A pint an' gill I'd gie them baith 

To hear your crack. 

But, first an' foremost, I should tell, 
Amaist as soon as I could spell, 
I to the crambo-jingle fell, 

'lho' rude an' rough. 
Yet crooning to a body's sel' 

Does weel eneugh. 

I am nae poet, in a sense. 
But just a rhymer, like, by chance, 
An' hae to learning nae pretence. 

Yet, what the matter ? 
Whene'er my muse does on me glance, 
I jingle at her. 

Your critic folk may cock their nose, 
And say, ' How can you e*er propose, 
You wha ken hardly verse frae prose, 



What's a* your jargon o'your schools* 
Your Latin names for horns an* stools ? 
If honest nature made you fools, 

What sairs your grammars ? 
Ye'd better taen up spades and shools, 

Or knappin-hanimers. 

A 6et o' dull conceited hashes. 
Confuse their brains in college classes ! 
They gang in stirks, and come out asses, 

Plain truth to speak ; 
An' syne they think to climb Parnassus 

By dint o* Greek I 

Gie me ae spark o' Nature's fire ! 
That's a' the learning I desire ; 
Then, tho' I drudge thro' dub an* mire 

At pleugh or cart, 
My muse, though hamely in attire, 

May touch the heart. 

O for a spunk o' Allan's glee, 
Or Ferguson's, the bauld and sice, 
Qr bright Lapraik's, my friend to be, 
If I ean hit it ! 



Now, Sir, if ye hae friends er 
Tio' real friends, I b'lieve, are 
(et, if your catalogue be fou, 



I winna blaw about mysel ; 
As ill 1 like my faults to tell ; 
But friends, aud folk that wish me well, 

They sometimes roosa me, 
Tho' I maun own, as monie still 

As far abuse me. 

There's ae wee faut they whyles lay to me, 
I like the lasses — Guid forgie me ! 
For monie a plack they wheedle frae me 

At dance or fair : 
May be some ither thing they gie me 
They weel can spare. 

But Mauchline race, or Mauchline fair, 
I should be proud to meet you there ; 
We'se gie ae night's discharge to care, 

If we forgather, 
An' hae a swap o' rhyming ware 

Wi'aneanither. 

The four-gill ch^p, we'se gar him clatter, 
An' kirsen him wi' reekin' water; 
Syne we'll sit down an' tak our whitter, 

To cheer our heart ; 
An, faith, we'se be acquainted better 

Before we part. 

Awa, ye selfish warly race, 
AVha thiuk tkat havins, sense, an' grace, 
Ev'n love and friendship should give place 

To catch the plack ! 
I dinna like to see your face, 

Nor hear your crack. 

But ye whom soc : al pleasure charms, 
Whose hearts the tide of kindness wariiis. 
Who hold your being on the term 



Come to my bowl 



Each aid the olbers, 
, come to my arms, 
.My friends, my brothers ! 



But, to conclude my lang epistle, 

As my anld pen's worn to the grisslej 

Twa lines frae you wad sar me dssle, 

Who am most fervent 
While I can either sing, or whissle, 

Your friend and ser-a 



TO THE SAME. 

April 21, 1783. 

While new ca'd kye rout at the stake. 
An' pownies reek in pleugh or brake, 
This hour on e'enin's edee I take. 

To own I'm debtor 
To honest-hearted auld Lapraik, 

F»r his kind fettor. 



ao-i 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



Forjesket sair with weary legs, 
Ratilin' the corn out-owre the rig's, 
Or dealing thro' nmang the naigs 

Their ten hours' bite, 
My awkwart-muse sair pleads and begs, 

I would ua write. 

The tapetless ramfeezl'd hizzie, 
She's saft at best, and something iazv, 
Quo' she, • Ye ken ye've been sae busy 



Her dowff excuses pat me mad ; 
• Conscience, ' says I, * ye thowles.3 jad '. 
I'll write, an' that a hearty blaud, 



Wha thinks himself nae sheep-shank ban*. 

But lordly stalks, 
While caps an' bonnets aft" are taen, 

As by he walks : 

' Thou wha gies us each guid gift ! 
Gie me o' wit and sense a lift. 
Then turn me if Thou please adrift 

Thro' Scotland wide ; 
Wi' cits nor lairds I would not shift, 

In a' their pride ! ' 

Were this the charter of our state, 
* On pain o' hell be rich and great,' 
Damnation then would be our fate, 
Beyond remead ; 
But, thanks to Heaven '. that's no the gate 
We learn our creed. 



' Shall bauld Lapraik, the king o' hearts, 
Tho' mankiud were a pack o' cartes, 
Roose you sae weel for your deserts, 

In terms sae friendly, 
Yet ye'll neglect to shaw vour parts, 

An' thank him kindly I ' 

Sae I got paper in a blink, 
An' down gaed stumpie in the ink: 
Quoth I, ' Before I sleep a wink, 

I vow I "11 close it; 
An' if ye winna mak' it clink, 

By Jove, I'll prose it !' 

Sae I've begun to scrawl, but whether 
la rhyme, or prose, or baith thegither, 
Or some hotch-potch that's rightly neither. 

Let time mak proof! 
But I shall scribble down some blether 

Just cleau aft'locf. 



My worthy friend, ne'er grudge an' c 
Tho' fortune use you hard an' sharp ; 
Coine, kittle up vour moorland harp 

Wi' ffleesome touch ! 



For thus the royal mandate ran, 
When first the human race began, 
' The social, friendly, honest man, 

Whate'er he be, 
Tis he fulfils great Nature's plan, 
An' none but he 5 ' 

O mandate glorious and divine I 
The followers o' the ragged Nine. 
Poor glorious devils ! yet mav shine 

In glorious light. 

While sordid sons of Mammon's.li 

Are dark 



ghr. 

Tho' here they scrape, an' squeeze, i 

Their worthless nievefu' o' a soul 
May in some future carcase howl 

The forest's fright ; 
Or in some day-detesting owl 

May shun the light. 

Then may Lapraik and Burns arise, 
To reach their native, kindred skies, 
irp, And sing their pleasures, hopes^ and joys. 
In some mild sphere, 
Still closer knit in friendship's ties, 
Each passing year. 



She's gien me rr.onie a jirt and fleg, 
Sin' I could striddle owre a rig ; 
But, by the L - d, tho' I shoufd beg, 

Wi' lyart pow, 
I'll laugh, an' sing, an' shake my leg, 
As lar.g's I dow ! 

Now comes the sax and twentieth sim; 
I've 6een the bud upo' the timiner, 
Still persecuted by the limmer, 

Frae year to year ; 
But vet, despite the kittle kimmer, 

I, Rob. am here. 

Do ye envy the city Gent, 
Behint a kist to lie and sklent, 
Or purse-proud, big wi' cent, per cent. 

And muckle wame, 
In some bit brugh to represent 

A Bailie's name ? 

Or is't the paughty feudal thane, 
Wi' ruffled sark and glancin* can*, 



OCHILTREE. 

May, 17S5. 
I gat yonr letter, winsome Willie: 
Wi' gratefu' heart I thank you brawlie ; 
Tho' I maun say't I wad be silly, 



Your flatterin' strain. 

uf I'se believe ye kindly meant it, 
I sud be laith to think ye hinted 
Ironic satire sidelins sklented 

On my poor rausie ; 
Tho' in sic phrai.-sin' :erms ye've penn'd it, 
I scarce excuse ye. 

My senses wad be in a creel, 
Should I but dare a hope to sped, 
Wi' Allan or wi* Gilbertfield, 

The braes of fame ; 



BURNS POEMS, 



(O Fergusson ! thy glorious parts 
111 suited law's dry musty arts. 
My curse upon your whunstane hearts, 

Ye E'nbrugh Gentry I 
The tithe o' what ve waste at carles, 

Wad stow 'd his pantry •) 

Yet when a tale comes i' my head, 
Or lasses gie my heart a screed, 
As whiles the} 're 1 ke to be my dead, 

(O sad disease!) 
I kittle up my rustic reed ; 

Itgies me ease. 

Anld Coila now may fidge fu' fain, 
She's gotten poets o' her ain, 
Chiels wha their chanters winna hain, 

But tune their la\s, 
Till echoes all resound aga : n 

Her weeUsung pra'se. 

Nae poet thought her worth his while, 
To set her name in measured styie ; 
She lay like some unkenned of isle 

Beside New- Holland, 
Or whare wild-meeting oceans boil 

Besouth Magellan. 

Ramsay an' famous Fergusson 
Cried Forth an' Tay a lift aboon ; 
Yarrow an' Tweed to monie a tune, 

Owre Scotland rings, 
While Irwin, Lugar, Ayr, an' Ooon, 
Nae tody sings. 

Th* Illissus, Tiber, Thames, an' Seine, 
Glide sweet in monie a tunefu' line \ 
But, Willie, set your fit to mine, 

An' cock your cresf, 
We'll gar our streams and bumies shine 
Up wi' the best. 

We'll sing auld Goila's plains an' fells, 
Her moors red-brown wi' heather bells. 
Her banks an' braes her dens an dells, 

Where glorious Wallace 
Aft bure the gree, as story tells, 

Frae southern billies. 

At Wallace' nsme what Scottish blood 
But boils up in a spring-tide flood ! 
Oft have our fearless fathers strode 

By Wallace' side, 
Still pressing onward, red wat-shod, 

Or glorious died. 

O sweet are Coila's haughs an' woods, 
When lintwhites chant among the buds, 
An' jinking hares, in amorous whids, 

Their loves enjoy, 
While thro' the braes the cushat croods 
With wailfu' cry ! 

Ev'n winter bleak has charms to me 
When winds rave thro' th* naked treej 
Or frost on hills of Ochiltree 

Are hoary grey ; 
Oi Winding drift9 wild-furious flee, 

Dark'ning (he day ! 



O Nature ! a' thy shows an' forms 
To feeling, pensive hearts hae charms ! 
Whether the summer kindly warms 

Wi' life an' light, 
Or winter howls in gusty storms, 

The lang, dark night ! 

The Muse, nae poet ever fand her, 
Till by himsel he learn 'd to wander, 
Adown some trotting burn's meander 

An' no think lang, 
O sweet, to stray, an' pensive ponder 

A heartfelt sang '. 

The warly race may drudge and drive. 
Hog shouther, jundie, stretch, an' strive. 
Let me fair Nature's face descrive, 

And I, wi' pleasure, 
Shall let the busy, grumbling hive 

Bum o'er their treasure. 

Fareweel, « my rhyme-composing brither « 
We've-been owre lang unkenn'd to ither. 
Now let us lay our heads thegither, 

In love fraternal; 
May Envy wallop in a tether, 

Black fiend infernal 1 

While highlandmen hate tolls and tales : 
While moorlan' herds like guid fat braxies ; 
While terra hrma on her axis 

Diurnal turns, 
Count on a friend, in faith aud practice. 

In Robert Burns. 



My u 



■ror; 



POSTSCRIPT. 
worth a preen ; 



I had amaUt forgot ti 

Ye bade me write you what they mean 

By this new-light, * 
'Eout which our herds sae aft hae been 

Maist like to light. 

In days when mankind were but callans 
At grammar, logic, an' sic talents, 
They took nae pains their speech to balance, 

But spak their thoughts in plain' braid lallar.s, 



Like 



JOil 



In thae auld times, they thought the moon, 
Jus; like a sark, or pair o' shoou, 
Wore by degrees, till her last roon, 

Gaed past their viewing, 
An' shortly after she was done, 

They gat a new ane. 

This past for certain, undisputed ; 
It ne'er cam i' their heads to dcubt it, 
Till chiels gal up an' wad confute it. 



Some herds, weel learn'd upo' (he buik, 
Wad threap auld folk the thing inisteuk; 
For 'twas the auld moon turn'd a neuk. 
An' out o' sight, 






DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



This was deny'd, it was affirm 'd ; 
The herds and hissels were alarm 'd ; 
The rev 'read grey -beards rav'd an' storm'd, 

That beardless laddies 
Should think they better were inform 'd 

Than their auld daddies. 

Frae less to mair it gaed to sticks ; 
Frae words an* a.tlis to clours an' nicks j 
Aii' niL-uie a fallow gat his licks, 

W»* heart., crunt ; 
An' koine to learn them for their tricks, 

Were hang'd an' brunt. 

This game was play'd in monie lands, 
An* auld-lijrht caddies bure sic hands, 
That faith the joungsters took the sands 

Wi' nimble shanks, 
Till lairds forbade, by strict commands, 
Sic bluidy pranks. 

But new-light herds gat sic a cowe, 
Folk thought them ruin'd stick-an'-stowe, 
Tili now ainaist on every knowe, 

Ye'll rind ane plac'd ; 
An* some, their new-light fair avow, 

Just quite barefac'd. 



Mysel', I've even seen them greetin' 
Wi' girnin* spite, 

To hear the moon sae sadly lie 'd en 
By word an' write. 

But shortly they wi'.l cowe the louns ! 
Some auld-Ught herds in neebor towns 
Are miad't, in things they ca' balloons, 

To tak' a flight. 
An* stay a month aniang the moons 
An* see them right. 

Guid observation they will gi 'e them • 
An' when the auld moon's gaun to lea'e thei 
The hindmost shaird, they'll te^ch it wi' thei 

Just i' their pouch, 
An' when the new-light billies see them, 

I think they '11 crouch I 

Sae, ye observe that a this clatter 
Is naething but a ' moonshine matter:' 
But thj' dull prose-folk Latin splatter 

» In logic tulzie, 

I hope, we bardies keu some belter 

Than mind sic bruleie. 



Ye ha'e sae monie cracks an' cants, 
And in your wicked, drucken rants, 
"*"e mak' a deril o' the saunts, 

An' fill them fou; 
And then their failings, flaws, en wantj , 

Are a' seen thro'. 

Hypocrisy, in mercy spare it ; 
That holy robe, O dinna tear it ! 
Spare't for their sakes wha aften wear it. 

The lads in black ! 
But your curst n 



Rives 



t off their back. 



EPISTLE TO J. RAXKINE. 
enclosing soma poems. 

O Rough, rode, ready-witted Rankine, 

The wale o' cocks for fun aud drinking, 

There's monie godly folks are thiukin', 

Yours dreams * an' tri 



Tnink, wicked sinner, whaye're skaitbin^. 
It's just the blue-gown badge an' claithing 
O' saunts; tak that, ye lea'e them naethii:g 

To ken them by, 
Frae ony unregenerate heathen 

Like you or L 

I've sent yon here some rhyming ware, 
A' that I bargain'd for an' mair ; 
Sae, when ye hae an hour to spare, 

I will expect 
Yon sazg.f ye'll sen't wi' cannie care, 
And no neglect. 

Tho' faith, sma' heart hae I to sing ! 
My muse dow scarcely spread her wing ! 
I've plaj 'd mysel a bonnie spring, 

An' dane'd my rill ! 
I'd better gaen and sair'd the king 

At Bunker's Hill. 

'Twas ae night lately in my fun 
I gaed a roving wi' the gun, 
An' brought a paitrick to the grun, 

A bonnie hen, 
An', as the twilight was begun, 

Thoaght nane wad ken. 

The poor wee thing was little hurt ; 
I straikit it a wee for sport, 
Ne'er thiukin' tiey wad fash me for't ; 

But, deil ma care ! 
Somebody tells the poacher-court 

The hale affair. 

Some auld us'd hands had ta'en a note. 
That sic a hen had got a shot ; 
I was suspected for the plot ; 

1 scorn 'd to lie ; 
So gat the whissle o' my groat, 

An' pay't the fee* 

But, by my gun, o' guns the wale, 
An' by my pouther an' my hail, 
An' by my hen, an' by her tail, 



As soon's the clockin' time is by, 
An' the wee pouts begun to cry, 
Lord, I'se hae sportin' by an' by, 

For my govfd guinea : 



f A eong be had promised the Author. 



BURNS POEM 3. 



Tho' I should herd the buckskin kye 
For't in Virginia. 

Trowtli, they had meikle for to blame ! 
*Twas neither broken wing nor limb, 
But twa-three draps about the wame, 

Scarce thro the feathers ; 
An' baith a yellow George to claim. 

An' thole their blethers ! 

It pits me aye as man's a hare ; 
So I can rhyme nor write nae mair ; 
But pennyworths again is fair, 

When time's expedient : 
Meanwhile 1 am, respected Sir, 

Your most obedient. 



JOHN BARLEYCORN,* 



A BALLAD. 



There were three kings into the east, 
Three kings both great and high, 

An' they hae sworn a solenu oath 
John Barleycorn should die. 



They took a plough and plough'dhin 

Put clods upon his head, 
And they hae sworn a solemn oath 

John Barleycorn was de*.d. 



But the chcerfu' spring came kindly on, 

And show'rs began lo fall ; 
John Barleycorn got up again. 

And sore surprised ihein all. 



The sultry suns of summer came, 
And he grew thick and strong, 

His head weel arm'd wi' pointed spears, 
That no one should tint wrong. 



The sober autumn enter'd miM, 
When be grew wan ad paie ; 

His bending joints and drooping head 
Show'd he began to fail. 



His colour sicken'd more and more, 

He faded into age ; 
And then his enemies began 

To show their deadly rage. 

VII. 

They've ta'en a weapon long and sharp. 

And cut him by the knee ; 
Then tied him fast upon a cart, 

Like a rogue for forgerie. 

VIII. 

They laid him down upon his back, 
And cudgel'd him full sore ; 

They hung hira up before the storm, 
And turn'd him o'er and o'er. 



* This is pnrtly composed on the plan of an 
old song known by the same name. 



IX. 

They filled up a darksome pit 
With water to the brim ; 

They heaved in John Barleycorn, 
There let him sink or swim. 

X. 

They laid h'ini out upon the floor, 
To work him farther woe, 

And still as signs of life appear 'd, 
They toss'd him to and fro. 



They wasted, o'er a scorching flame, 

The marrow of his bones ; 
But a miller us'd him warst of all, 

For he crush'd him between two stones. 

XII. 

And they hae ta'en his very heart's blood, 
And drunk it round and round ; 

And still the mere and more they drank, 
Their joy did more abound. 

XIIL 

John Barleycorn was a hero bold. 

Of noble enterprise, 
For if you do but taste his blood, 

'Twill make your courage rise. 

XIY. 

'Twill make a man forget his woe ; 

Twill heighten all his joy : 
'Twill make the widow's heart to sing, 

Tho' the tear were in her eye. 

XV. 

Then let us toast John Barleycorn, 

Each man a glass in hand; 
And may his great posterity. 

Ne'er fail in old Scotland ! 



A FRAGMENT. 



When Guildford good our pilot stood, 
And did our helm thraw, man, 

Ae night, at tea, began a plea, 
Within America, man : 

Then up they gat the maskin.pat, 
And in the sea did jaw, man ; 

An' did nae less, in full congress, 
efuse our law, man. 



Q IjUtt. 



II. 



Then thro' the lakes Montgomery takes, 

I wat he was na slaw, nian : 
Down Lowrie's burn betook a turn, 

And Carleton did ca', man: 
But yet, w hat-reck, he, at Quebec, 

Moutgouiery-like did fa', man ; 
Wi' sword in hand, before. his band, 

Ainaug his enemies a', man. 

III. 

Poor Tommy Gage, within a cage, 
Was kept at Button ha', man , 

Till Willie Howe took o'er the know* 
For Fhiladelpaift, man; 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



Wi' sword an' gun he thought a sin 
Guid Christian blood to dravf, man; 

But at New- York, wi' knife and fork, 
Sir-loin he hacked sma', man. 

IV. 

Burgovne gaed up, like spur an* whip, 

TUl'Fraser brave did fa', man ; 
Then lost his way, ae inisty day, 

Iu Saratoga shew, man. 
Cornwal'.is fought as land's he dcught, 

An' did the buckskins claw, inau ; 
Bnt Clinton's glaive frae rust to save, 

He hung it to the wa', man. 

V. 



And Sackville doure, wha stood the gi 

The German chief to thraw, man : 
Poor Paddy Burke, like cuie Turk, 



VI. 
Then Rojkinjham took up the game ; 

Till deash aid on him ca\ man ; 
When Shelburne meek held up his cheek, 

Conform to gospel law, man, 
Saint Stephen's boys, wi' jarring ncise* 

They did his measures thraw, man, 
Fur North and Fox united stocks, 

And bore him to the wa', man. 

vn. 

Then clubs an' hearts ware Charlie'* cartesj 

Be =«ept the stakes awa', man, 
Till the diamond's ace of Indian race, 

Led him a sair jtiux pas, man : 
] te ^ixsalads. wi' loud placads. 

On Chatham's boy did ca', man; 
land drew her p : pe, :: 

• 'Up, Willie, waur them a', man !" 

MIL 
Behind the throne then Grenvilie's gone, 

While slee Dundas aro-j 3 'd the class 
Be-north the Roman wa', man : 
' Chatham's wraith, in heavenly graith, 



W 



Ins lired L^r^.i; saw, : 
„ jes, cry'd 
Would 1 ha'e fear'd tl 

IX. 



But word an' blow, North, Fes, and Co. 

GowffM Willie like a ba\ man, 

re as raise, and coost their c'.aise 

Behind him iu a raw, man ; 
An' Caledon threw by the drone, 

An' did her whittle draw, mail ; 
An' swoor fu' rude, thro' u.irt and blood 

IV make it guid in iaw, man. 



SCNG. 
Tuns—'* Corn Rigs are Ecr,r.:r 



B«neath the moon's unclouded light, 

I held awa to Annie : 
The time flew bv wi' tentless heed, 

Till tweeu the' late and early, 
WV sma' persuasion she agreed, 

To see me thro' the barley. 

IL 

The sky was blue, the wind was «'!,, 

The moon was shining clearly ; 
I set her down, wi' right good wi '., 

Amang the rigs o* barley. 
I kent her heart was a' my aii; ; 

I iov'd her mttet sincerely ; 
I kiss'd her owre and owre again 

Amang the rigs o' barley. 

1IL 

I lock'd her in my fond embrace ! 

Her heart was "beating rarely ; 
My blessings on that happy place, 

Amang the rigs o* barley ' 
But by the moon aud stars so bright, 

That shone that hcur so clearh : 
She aye shall bless that happy night, 

Amang the rigs o' barley. 

IV. 

I hae been blythe wi' comrades dear ; 

I Dae teen merry drinkin* ; 
I hae been joyfu' gath 'riu gear i 

I hae been happy thinkin' : 
But a' the pleasures e'er I saw, 

Tho' three times doubled fairly. 
That happy n : ght was worth them u", 

Amaiig the rigs o' barley. 



Zona rigs an' barley rigs, 

An' corn rigs are t c 
I'll ne'er forget that happy night, 

Amang the rigs wi' fl 



C0MPOSK3 IX AV« »«•. 
T:.y.i — " I had a Horse, I had nae 



Xox wesllin' win^s and slaughl'ring runs, 

Brins- antnmn's pleasant « e 
The moorcock springs, on whirr. r 

Amang the blooming heather : 
Sow waring grain, wide o'er the plain, 

I)e!igh:s The weary fanner! 



And the i 



night 



i bright, wbei I rcrs at 



II. 



The partridge loves the fruitful fells : 

1 he plover loves the mountains : 
The woodcock haunts the lonely dells ; 

The soaring hern the fountains : 
Thro' lofty g^es the cushat roves 

The path .f roan to shun it ; 
The hazel bush o'erhangs the thrush, 

The spreading thorn the lincet. 



BURNS POEMS. 



Thus ev'ry kind their pleasure find, 

The savage and the tender ; 
Some social join, and leagues combine ; 

Some solitary wander ; 
Avaunt, away ! the cruel sway, 

Tyrannic man's dominion : 
The sportsman's joy, the murd'ring cry, 

The flutt'ring, gory pinion 1 

IV. 

But Peggy dear, the ev'ning's clear. 

Thick Hies the skimming swallow ; 
The sky is blue, the Gelds in view, 

All fading-green and yellow : 
Coine let us stray out gladsome way, 

And view the charms of nature : 
The rustlin corn, the fruited thorn, 

And ev'ry happy creature. 

V. 

We'll gently walk, and sweetly talk. 

Till the silent moon shine clearly ; 
I'll grasp thy waist, and, fondly prest, 

Swear how I love thee dearly : 
Not vernal show'rs to budding flow'rs, 

Not autumn to the farmer, 
So dear can be as thon lo me, 

JVIy fair, my lovely charmer '. 



SONG. 
Tune— " My N >nuie, 0. ' 



Behind yon hills where Sli;.char flow! 

Jiang moors an' mosses many, O, 
The wintry sun the day has closed, 

And I'll awa lo Nannie, O. 



An' owre the hills to Nai 



My Nannie's charming, sweet, a 
Nae artfu' wiles lo win ye, O ; 

May ill befa' the flalt'ring tongue 
'lhat wad beguile my Nannie, i 



Her face is fair, her heart is true, 
As spotless as she's bonnie, O t 

The opening gowan, wet wi' dew, 
Nae purer is than Nannie, O. 



A country lad is my degree. 

An' few there be that ken me, ; 

But what care I how few they be, 
I'm welcome aye to Nannie, O. 



My riches a* 's my penny. fee, 
An' I maun guide it caunie, O ; 

But warl's gear ne'er troubles me, 
My thoughts are a' my Nannie, O, 



VII. 

Our auld guidman delights to view 
His sheep an' kye thrive bonnie, O ; 

Dut I'm as blithe that hauds his pleugh, 
An' hae nae care but Nannie, O. 

VIII. 

Come weel, come wae, I care na by, 
I'll take what Heaven will sen' me, O < 

Nae ither care in life have I, 
But live, an' love my Nannie, O. 



GREEN GROW THE RASHES. 

A FRAGMENT. 



I. 

There's nought but caie on ev'ry han', 
In ev'ry hour that passes, O ; 

What signifies the life o' man, 
An' 'twere na for the lasses, O. 

Green grow, &c 






II. 






may riches chase, 
II may fly them, O; 
An' though at last ihey catch them fast, 
Their hearts can ne'er enjoy them, O. 
Green grow, &c. 

III. 

Bui gie me a canny hour at e'en, 
My arms about my dearie, O ; 

An' warly cares, an' warly men. 
May a' gae tap^alteerie, O. 



u grow, &c. 



IV. 



For you so douse, ye sneer at this. 

Ye're nought but senseless asses, ; 
The wisest man the warld e'er saw, 

He dearly lo'ed the lasses, O ; 

Green grow, &c. 

V. 

Anld Nature swears, the lovely dears 
Her noblest work she classes, O ; 

Her prentice nan' she tried on man, 
And then she niadethe lasses, O. 

Green grow, Sit. 



Tune — " Joekie's Grey Breeks.' 



Ajrain rejoicing Nature seen 

Her robe assume its vernal hue*, 

Her leafy locks wave in the breere, 
Aii freshly steep 'd in morning dewf. 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRAHYi 



CKORl's-* 

And maun I still on Menie f doat, 
And bear the scorn that's in her e'e ? 

For it's jet, jet black, and it's like a hawk, 
And it winno, let a boi'y be ! 

ir. 

In Tain to me the cowslips bTaw, 
- In Tain to me the violets spring } 
In vain to me, in glen or shaw. 
The in a vis and the lint white sing. 

And maun I still, &c 

III. 

Thejnerry plonghboy cheers his team, 
Wi' joy the teutie seedsman stalks; 

But life to me's a weary dream, 
A dream of ane that never wauks. 

And maun I still, ie, 

IY. 

The wanton coot the water skims, 
Amang ihe reeds the ducklings cry, 

Tie stately swan majestic swims, 
And every thing is llest but I. 

And maun 1 still, &c. 

V. 

The shepherd steeks his faulding slap, 
And owie the moorlands whistles shill, 

Wi' wild, unequal wandering step 
I meet him on the de«y hill. 

And maun I still, &e. 



Come, Winter, with thine angry howl, 
And raging bend the naked tree ; 

Thy giooin will soothe niy cheerless soul, 
'When nature all is sad like me 1 

cnoKua. 
And maun I still on toenie doat, 

And bear the scorn that's in her e e ? 
For it's jet, jet black, and it's like d hawk, 

An' it winna let a body be. f 



* This chorus is'part of a song composed by 
a gentleman in Edinburgh, a particular friend 
of the author's. 

■j- Jleuie is a common abbreviation of Mari- 
amne. 

^ We cannot presume to alter any of the 
poems of our bard, and mora especially those 
printed under his own direction ; yet it is to be 
regretted that this chorus, which is not his 
own composition, should be attached to these 
tine stanzas, as it perpetually interrupts the 
train of sentiment which they excite. 



Tune— " Roslin Castl* ** 

I. 

The gloomy night is gath'ring fast» 
Loud roars the wild inconstant blast, 
Yon murky cloud is foul wi' rain, 
I see it driving o'er the plain ; 
The hunter now has left the moor, 
The scatter'd coveys meet secure, 
While here I wander prest wi* care, 
Along the lonely banks of Ayr. 

II. 

The Autumn mourns her ripening com 
By early Winter's ravage torn ; 
Across her placid, azure skr, 
She sees the scowling tempest fly ; 
Chill runs my blood to hear it rave, 
I think upon the stormy wave, 
Where many a danger I must dare. 
Far from the bonnie banks of Ayr. 

in. 

Tis not the surging billow 's roar, » 

Tis not that fatal deadly shore : 
Tho' death in every shape appear, 
The wretched have no wore to fear : 
But round my heart the ties are bound, 
That heart transpiere'd with many a wound 
These bleed afresh, those ties I tear 
To leave the bonnie banks of Ayr. 

IV. 

Farewell, old Coila's hills an' dales, 
Her heathy moors uud winding vales ; 
The scenes where wretched fancy roves, 
Pursuing p^st unhappy loves! 
Farewell, my friends, farewell, my foes ! 
My peace with these, my love with those— 
The bursting tears my heart declare. 
Farewell the bonuie batiks of Ayr ! 



Tww— "GUderoy." 



From thee, Eliza, I must go. 

And from my native shoie : 

The cruei fates between us throw 

But boundless oceans roaring wide, 

Between my love and me, 
They never, never can divide 

.My heart and soul from thee. 

II. 

Farewell, farewell, Eliza dear, 

The maid that I adore ! 
A boding voice is in mine ear, 

We part to meet no more I 
But the last throb that leaves my heart, 

While death stands victor by, 
That throb, Eliza, i? thy part, 

And thine that latest sigh I 






THE FAREWELL, 



Tune— "Good night and joy be wi' you a" I' 



Adieu ! a heart-wsrm, fond adieu, 

Dear brothers of the mystic tie ! 
Ye favour'd, ye enlighten'd few, 

Companions of my social joy ! 
Tho* I to foreign lands must hie, 

Pursuing Fortune's slidd'ry ba', 
With melting heart, and brimful eve, 

I'll mind jou still, tho' far awa*. 

II. 

Ofi have I met your social band, 

And *ptnt the cheerful festive night ; 
Oft honour'd with supreme command, 

Presided o'er the sons of light ; 
And by that hieroglyphic bright, 

Which none but craftsmen ever saw 
Strong mem'ry on my heart shall write 

Those happy scenes when far awa\ 

III. 

May freedom, harmony, and love, 

Unite you in the grand design. 
Beneath th' omniscient eye above, 

The glorious architect divine ! 
That you may keep'th' unerring line, 

Still rising by the plummet's law, 
Till order bright completely shine, 

Shall be my pray'r when far awaj'* 

IV. 

And you, farewell ! whose merits claiu 

Justly that highest badge to wear! 
Heav'n bless your honour'd, noble nan 

To masonry and Scotia dear ! 
A last request, permit me here, 

When yearly ye assemble a'. 
One round, I ask it with a tear. 

To him, the bard that's far awa" ! 



: the whole of r 



IT. 

The peer I don't envy, I give him his bow ; 
[ scorn not the peasant, tho' ever so low ; 
But a club of good fellows like those that a 

here, 
And a bottle like this, are my glory and care 



-POEMS. 811 

But see yon the crown, how it waves in tlb 
! There, a big-belly 'd bottle still eases my care. 

IV. 

! The wife of my bosom, alas ! she did die | 
For sweet consolation to church I did fly } 
I found that old Solomon proved it fair, 
That a big-belly 'd bottle's a cure for all care. 



I once was persuaded a venture to make ; 
A letter inform 'd me that all was to wreck ; 
But the pursy old landlord just waddl'd up 

With a glorious bottle that ended my cares. 

VI. 

« Life's cares they are comforts'* — a maxim 

laid down 
By the bard, what d'ye call him, that wore the 

black gown ; 
Aud faith I agrte with th' old prig to a hair > 
For a big-belly'd bottle's a heaven of care. 

[A Stanza added in a Mason Lodge.] 

Then fill up a bumper, and make it o'erflow, 
And honours masonic prepare for to throw ; 
Way every true brother of the compass and 

Have a big-beily'd bottle when harass'd with 



WRITTEN IN 

FRIAR'S CARSE HERMITAGE, 

ON Wr.'H-SIDB. 

Thou whom chance may hither lead, 
Be thou clad in russet weed, 
Be thou deck'd in silken stole, 
Grave these counsels on thy i>cul. 

Life is but a day at most. 
Sprung from night, in darkness lost ; 
Hope not sunshine every hour, 

' clouds will always lower. 



ll = r 



III. 

passes the squire o 



brother — his 
• cit with his 



As youth and love with sprightly dunce, 
Beneath thy morning star advance, 
P.easure with her siren air 
May delude the thoughtless pair ; 
Let prudence bless enjoyment's cup, 
Then raptured sip, and sip it up. 



As thy daj gro 



tndhigh, 



Dost thou spurn the humble vale ? 

Life's proud summits wouldst thou scai? ' 

Check thy climbing step, elate, 

Evils lurk in felon wait : 

Dangers, eagle-pinion'd bold, 

Soar around each cliffy hold. 

While cheerful peace, with linnet song, 

Chants the lowly dells among. 



ir.g't Night Thoughts. 



243 



DIAMOND CAMKET 1©RARY. 



As the shades of ev'ning close, 
Beck'ning tbee to long repose : 
As life itself becomes disease, 
Seek the chimney-neuk of ease, 
There ruminate with sober thought, 
On all thou'st seen, and heard, and wrought ; 
And teach the sportive younkers round, 
Saws of experience, sage and sound. 
Say, man's Irue, genuine estimate, 
The grand criterion of his fate, 
Is not, Art tbou high or low ! 
Did thy fortune ebb or floiv ? 
Did many talents gild thy span ? 
Or frugal nature grudge thee one • 
Tell them, and press it on their mind, 
As thou thvself mast shortly find, 
The smile or frown of awful Heaven, 
To virtue or to rice is given. 
Say, to be just, and kind, and wise, 
There solid self-enjoyment lies ; 
That foolish, selfish, faithless ways, 
Lead to the wretched, vile, and base. 

Thus resign'd and quiet, creep 
To the bed of lasting s eep ; 
Sleep, whence thou shalt ne'er awake, 
Nisrht where dawn shall never break, 
Tit future life, future no more, 
To light and joy the good restore, 
To light and joy unknown before. 
Stra:.gf r, go'. Heaven be thy glide ! 
Quodlhe beadsman of Kith-side. 



ACRED TO THE 1 



Who in widow-weeds appears, 
Laden with unhonour'd years, 
Noosing with cr.re a bursting pu 
Eaited with many a deadly curst 



View the wither'd beldam's face, 

Can thy keen inspection trace 

Aught of humanity's sweet melting grace ? 

Note that eye, 'tis rheum o'erflows, 

Pity's flood there never rose, 

See those hands, ne'er stretch M to save, 

Hands that took — but never ^ave. 

Keeper of Mammon's iron chest, 

Lo, there she goes, unpitied, and nnblest ? 

She goes, but not to realms of everlasting re.t ! 

ANTISTBOPIIE. 
Pinr.derer of armies, lift thine eyes, 
X A while forbear, ye tort 'ring fiends,) 
Seest thou whose step unwilling hither bends ? 
No fallen angel, hurl'd from upper skies ; 
'Tis thy trusty quondam mate, 
Doom'd to share thy fiery fate, 
Bhe, tardy, hell-ward plies. 



Ten thousand "glitt'ring pounds a-year ? 
In other worlds can Mammon fail, 
Omnipotent as he is here ? 



O. bitter mock'ry of the pompous bier, 
While down thewretched vital part is driven I 
The cave-lodged beggar, with a conscience 

clear, 
Expires in rags, unknown, and goes to Heaven. 



CAPTAIN MATTHEW HENDERSON, 

A GENTLEMAN WHO HELD THE PATENT 
TOS. HIS HONOURS IMMEDIATELY FBOM 
ALMIGHTY GOD ! 



O Death ! thou tvrant fell and bloody ; 

The meikle devil *wi' a woodie 

Haurl thee hame to his black smiddie, 

O'er hurcheon hides. 
And like stock-fish come o'er his studdie, 

Wi' thy auld sides ! 

He's gane, he's gane ! he,'s frae us tora. 
The ae best fellow e'er was born ! 
Thee, Matthew, Nature's sel' shall mourn 

By wood and wild, 
Where haply, Fit v strays forlorn, 

Ye hills, ner.r neeiors o T the starns, 
That proudly cock your cresting cairns • 
Ye clills, the haunts of sailing yearns, 

Where echo slumbers ! 

Coa - .e join, ye Nature's sturdiest bairns, 

My wailing uumbeisJ 

Mourn ilka grove the cushat ken*} 
Ye haz'ily shaws and briery dens I 
Ye burnies wimplin down your glens, 

Wi" tuddlin din. 
Or foaming, Strang, wi' hasty steiia> 



eii:: 



u tin. 



Mourn little harebells o'er the lee; 
Ye stately fox-gloves fair to see ; 
Ye woodbines, hanging bonnilie 

In scented bowers ; 
Ye roses on your thorny tree. 

The first o' flowers. 

At dawn, when ev'ry grassy blade 
Droops with a diamond at its head, 
At ev'n, when beans their fragrance shed, 

I' th' rustling gale, 
Y'e maukins Yfhiddin thro' the'glade, 

Come join my wail. 

Mourn ye wee songsters o' the wood ; 
Ye grouse that crap the heather bud ; 
Ye curlews calling thro' a clud ; 

Ye whistling plOTer ; 
And mourn, ye whirring paitriete brood ; 

He '* gane for ever ! 



BURNS POEMS. 



Mourn, goofy coots, and speckled teals, 
Ye fisLer herons, watchiDg eels ; 
Ye duck dud drake, wi ' airy wheels 
Circling the lake ; 



Mourn, clam 'ring craiks at close o' day, 
'Maug fields o* flow'ring clover gay ; 
And when ye wing your annual way 

Frae our eauld shore, 
Tell tliae far warlds, wha lies in clay. 
Wham we deplore. 

Ye houlets frae your ivy bow'r, 
In some auld tree, or eldritch tow'r, 
What time the moon, wi* silent glow'r, 

Sets up her horn, 
Wail thro' the dreary midnight hour 
Till waukrife morn ! 

O rivers, forests, hills, and plains I 

Oft have ye heard nij canty si rains : 

But now, what else for me remains 

But tales of woe ; 

An* frae my eeu the drapping rains 

Maim ever flow. 

Mourn, spring, thou darling of the year ! 
Ilk cowslip cup shall kep a tear : 
Thou, simmer, while each corny spear 

Shoots up its head, 
Thy gay, green, flaw'ry tresses shear, 
For him that's dead ! 

Thou, autumn, wi' thy yellow hair, 
In grief thy sallow mantle tear ! 
Thou, winter, hurling thro' the air 
The roaring blast, 
Wide o'er the naked world declare 

The worth we've lost ! 

Mourn him, thou sun, great source oflight ! 
Mourn, empress of the silent night ! 
And you, ye twinkling stcrnies bright, 
My Matthew mourn ! 
For through your orbs he's ta'en his flight, 
.Ne'er to return. 

O Henderson ! the man, the brother ! 
And art thou gone, and gone for ever ! 
And hast tliou cross'd that unknown river, 

Life's dreary bound ! 
Like thee, where shall I find another, 

The world around ! 

Go to your sculptured tombs, ye great, 
In a' the tinsel trash o' state ! 
But by the honest turf I'll wait, 

Thou man of worth ! 
And weep the ae best fellow's fate 

E'er lay in earth. 



THE EPITAPH. 

Stop, passenger! my story's brief ; 

And truth I shall relate, man : 
1 tell nae common tale o' grief, 

For Matthew was a great man. 



If thou a noble sodger art, 

That passest by this grave, manj 

There moulders here a gallant heart, 
For Matthew was a brave man. 

If thou on men, their works and ways, 
Canst throw uncommon light, man ; 

Here lies wha weel had won thy praise, 
For Matthew w as a bright man. 

If thou at friendship's sacred ca', 
Wad life itself resign, man ; 

Thy sympathetic tear maun fa'. 
For Matthew was a kind man. 

If thou art staunch without a stain, 
Like the unchanging blue, mau, 



Lf thou hast wit, and fun, and fire, 
And ne'er guid wine did fear, man, 

This was thy billie, dam, and sue, 
For Matthew was a queer mau. 

If ony whiggish whingin sot, 

To blame poor Marthew dare, man ; 

May dool and sorrow be his lot, 
For Matthew was a rare man. 



LAMENT OF MARY QUEEN OP 
SCOTS, 

ON THB APPROACH OF SPUING. 

Now Nature hangs her mantle green 

On every blooming tree, 
\nd spreads hsr sheets o' daisies white 

Out o'er the grassy lea : 
Now Phrebus cheers the crystal streams, 

And glads the azure skies ; 
But nought can glad the weary wight 

That fast in durance lies. 

Now lav 'rocks wake the merr/ morn, 

Aloft on dewy wing ; 
The merle, iu his noontide bow'r. 

Makes woodland echoes ring ; 
The mavis mild wi' many a note, 

Sings drowsy day to rest i 
In love and freedom they rejoice, 

Wi' care nor thrall oppress 'd. 

Now blooms the lily by the bank, 

The primrose down the brae ; 
The hawthoi i's budding in the glen, 

And milk-white is the slae : 
rhe meanest bind in fair Scotland, 

May rove their sweets amang ; 
But I, the Queen of a' Scotland, 

Maun lie in prison Strang. 

I was the Queen o' bonnie France, 

Where happy I hae been ; 
Fu' lightly raise I in the morn, 

As blithe lay down at e'en : 
And I'm the sovereign of Scotland, 

And mony a traitor thejre ; 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



And i 

Bat as for thee, thou false woman, 

.My sister and my fae, 
Grim vengeance, yet, shall whet a sword 

That tbro' thy soul shall gae : 
The weeping blood in woman's breast 

Was never known to thee ; 
Nor th' balm that draps on wounds cf woe 

Frae woman's pitying e'e. 

My son ! my son ! may kinder stars 

Upon thy' fortune shine : 
And may those pleasures gild thy reign, 

That "ne'er wad blink on mine ■ 
Cod keep thee frae thy mother's faes, 

Or turn their hearts to thee ; 
And where thou meet'st thy mothej's friend, 

Remember him for me ! 

O ! soon, to me, may summer suns 

Nae niair light up the morn ! 
Nae mair, to me, the autumn winds 

Wave o*er the yellow corn ! 
And in the narrow house o' death 



\ No heels to bear him from the opening dun ; 
I No claws to dig, his hated sight to shun ; 
No horns, but those by luckless Hymen worn, 
And those, alas ! not Amalthea's horn : 

nerves olfactory, Mammon's trusty cur, 
Clad in rich dulness' comfortable fur, 
a naked feeling, and in aching pride, 
He bears the unbroken blast from every side : 
-.pyre booksellers drain him to the'hearl, 
And scorpion critics cureless venom dart. 

Critics — appall'd, I vei 
rhose cut-throat bandits i 
Bloody dissectors, worse i 
He hacks to teach, they u 



ure on the name, 
i the paths of fame j 



His heart by causeless, 



wanton malice 



By blockheads* darine into madness stung ; 
His well-won bays, than life itself more de.i 
I Hy miscreants torn, who ne'er one sprig m 









! Foil'd, bleeding, tortur'd, in the 
strife. 

The hapless poet flounders on through life, 
Till fled each hope that once his bosom tired, 
And fled each muse that glorious once in- 
Low sunk in squalid, "nprotected age, 
Dead even resentmer.t for his injured page, 

■ e the ruthless er.tic's 



He heeds or feels n 



TO ROBERT GRAHAM, Es<j. 

OF VrSTRA. 

Late crippled of an arm, and now a leg, 
About to beg a pass for leave to begj 
Dull, listless, teas'd, dejejred, and depress'd, 
(Nature is adverse to a cripple's rest ;) 
Will generous Graham list to his poet's wail ': 
It soothes poor misery, hearkening to hei 

tale. ) 
And hear him curse the light he first survey 'd. 
And doubly curse the luckiess rhyming trade '. 



So, by some hedge, the generous steed de- 

For half-starv'd snarling curs a dainty feast ; 
By to;l and famine worn to skin and bone, 
j Lies senseless of each tugging bitch's son, 

portion of the truly bless'd ! 
Halm sheiicr'd haven of eternal rest! 
Thy soun ne'er madden in the fierce extremes 
Of fortune's polar frost, or torrid beams. 
If mantling high she fills the golden cup, 
With sober se.tish ease the> sip it up : 
Conscious the bounteous meed they well de- 



Thou, Nature, partial Nature. I arraign 
Of thy caprice maternal I complain. 
The lion and the bull thy care have found, 
One shakes the forest, and one spurns the 

ground: 
Thou giv'st the ass his hide, the snail his 

shell, 
Th' envenom'd wasp, victorious, guards his 

cell. 
Thy minions, kings, defend, control, devour, 

In all th' omnipotence of rule and power 

Foxes and statesmen, subtile wiles insure ; 
The cit and polecat stink, and are secure ; 
Toads with their poison, doctors with their 

drug, 
The priest and hedge-hog in their robes are 



darts. 

But Oh ! thou bitter stepmother and hard, 
To thy poor, fenceless, naked child — the 

Bard! 
A thing unteachable in world's skill. 
And half an idiot too, more helpless still. 



And thinks the mallard a sad worthless do;. 
When disappointment snaps the clue of hope, 
And thro' disastrous night they darkling 



Not so the idle mus. 
Not such the workia; 

In equanimity they never dwell, 

ty turns in soaring heaven, or vaulted hell. 

T dread the fate, relentless and severe, 
With all a poet's, husband's, father's fear ; 
Already one strong hold of hope is lost, 
Glencairn, the truly noble, lies in dust J 
(Fied, like the sua eclipsed as noon appears, 
,-iuu left us darkling in a world of tears :) 
O ! bear my ardent, grateful, selfish prayer i 
Fintia, my other stay, long bless aod spars « 



BURNS — POEMS. 



Vhro' a long life his hopes and wishes crown, 
Aud bright in. cloudless skies his sun go 

downl 
May bliss domestic smooth his private path : 
Give energy to life; aud soothe his latest 

With many 'a filial tear circling the bed of 
death ! 



LAMENT FOR JAMES, EARL OF 
GLENCAIRN. 

The wind blew hollow frae the hills, 



Beneath a craigy steep, a bard, 

Laden with years and -neikle pain, 

In loud lament bewail'd his lord, 
Whom death had all untimely ta'en. 



His locks' we're bleached white wi' time, 
His hoary cheek was wet wi' tears ! 

And as he touch'd his tremblii.g harp, 
And as he tuu'd his doleful sang, 

The winds, lamenting thro' their caves, 
To echo bore the coles along. 

" Ye seatter'd birds that faintly sing. 

The relics of the vernal quire '. 
Ye woods that shed on a' the winds 

The honours of the aged year ! 
A few short months, and glad, and gay. 

Again ye '11 charm the ear and e'e ; 
But nocht in all revolving time 

Can gladness bring again to me. 

" I am a bending aged tree, 

That long has stood the wind and rain ; 
But now has come a cruel blast, 

And my last hald of earth is gone: 
Nae leaf o' mine shall greet the spring, 

Nae simmer sun exalt my bloom : 
But I maun lie before the storm, 

And ituers plant them in my room. 

" I've seen sae mony changefu' years. 

On earth I am a stranger grown ; 
I wander in the ways of men, 

Alike unknowing and unknown t 
Unheard, uipitied, unrelieved, 

I bear alane my lade o' care. 
For silent, low on beds of dust, 

Lie a' that would my sorrow share. 

•' And last, (the sum of a' my griefs ' ) 

My noble master lies in clay ; 
The flower amang our barons bold, 

His country's pride, his country's stay ; 
In wearv being now I pine, 

For a' the life of life is dead, 
And hope has left my aged ken, 

On forward wing for ever fled. 

** Awake thy last sad voice, my harp ! 

The voice of woe and wild despair ; 
Awake, resound tby latest lay, 

A»d sleep in silence avermair ! 



And thou, my *asr, *>est. only friend, 

That fillest an untimely tomb, 
Accept this tribute from the bard 

Thou brought from fortune's mirkest glocau 

*' In poverty's low barren vale ; 

Thick mists, obscure, involv'd me round^ 
Tho* oft I turn'd the wistful eye, 

Nae ray of fame was to be found t 
Thou found'st rne like the morning sun 

That melts the fo^s in limpid air. 
The friendless bard and rustic song 

Became alike thy fostering care. 

" O ! Why has worth so short a date ? 

While villains ripen grey with time ! 
Must thou, the noble, gen'rous, great, 

(•'all in bold manhood's hardy prime! 
Why did I live to see that day ! 

A day to me so full of woe I 
O ! had I met the mortal shaft 

Which laid my benefactor low ! 

•* The bridegroom may forget the bride 

Was made his wedded wife yestreen ; 
The monarch may forget the crown 

That on his head an hour hath been ; 
The mother mav forget the child 

Tliat smiles sae sweetly on her knee ; 
But I'll remember thee, Glencairn, 

And a' that thou hast done for me '" 



LINES, 

SENT TO SIR JOHN' WHITEFORD 0» 
WIIITEFORn, BART, WITH THS FORE- 
GOING POEM. 

Thou, who thy honour as thy God re-ver'st, 
Who, save thy mind's reproach, nought 

earihly fear'st. 
To thee this votive ofV'ring I impart, 
*• The tearful tribute of a broken heart. " 
The friend thou valued'st, I the patron lov'd ; 
His worth, his honour, ail the world ap. 

We'll mourn till we too go as he is gono, 
And tread the dreary path to that dark world 
unknown. 



TAM O' SHANTER : 

A TALE. 

Of Brown} : s and of Bogiiis full is tlrs Buke. 
Gawin Douglat* 

Wlieu chapman billies leave the street, 
And drouthy ueebors, neebors meet. 
As market-days are wearing late, 
An' folk begin to tak the gate ; 
While we sit bousing at the nappy, 
An' gettin' fou an' unco happy, 
We think na on the lang Scots miles, 
The mosses, waters, slaps, an' styles. 
That lie between us and our hanse, 
Where sits our sulky sullen dame, 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



This truth fand honest Tam o' Shan'.tr, 
As he frae Ayr ae a gl>t clia canter, 
fAuld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses, 
Vsr honest men and bouuy lasses.) 

O Tam '. hadst thou but been sae wise. 
As ta'en thy ain wife Kate's udviee ! 
She tauld thee weel tuou was a skellum, 
A blethering, blustering, drunken bielium ; 
That frae November till Oc;ober, 
Ae market-day thou was na sober ; 
That ilka welder, wi' ihe miller, 
Thou sat as lang as thcu had Siller ; 
That ev'ry naig was ca'd a shoe on, 
The smith" and thee gat roaring fou on ; 
That at tbe L— d's house, ev'n ou Sunday, 
Thou drank wi' Kirklon Jean u 1 Monday. 
She prophesy'd, that late or soon. 
Thou would'be found deep drouu'd in Doon 
Or catch'd wi ! warlocks iu Ihe m.rk, 
By Alloway's auld haunted kirk. 

Ah, gentle dames ! it gars me greet, 
To think how mony counsels sweet, 
How rcony lengthen'u sage advices, 
The husband frae -the wife despises ! 

Eat to our tale : Ae market night, 
Tarn had got planted unco right ; 
Fast by an ingle, bleeziug finely, 
Wi' reaming- swats, '.hat drank divinely : 
And at his elbow, souter Johnny, 
His ancient, trusty, drouthy crouv ; 
Tam lo'ed hiia like a vera brither ; 
They had been fou for weeks thegither. 
The night crave on wi' sangs an' clatter ; 
And aye the ale was growing better : 
The landlady and Tain grew gracious, 
Wi' favours, secret, sw eet, and precious > 
The souter tauld his queerest stories ; 
The landlord's laugh was ready choius: 
The storm without might rail and rustle, 
Tam did ua mind the storm a whistle. 

Care, mad to see a men sae happy, 
E'en drown'd himself aiuang the nappy ; 
As bees flee haine '* 
The minutes wing 
Kings may be ble: 
O'er a' the ills o* 



lades 

ut Tam was glorious, 






But pleasures 

You seize the flow r, us uiouni is sneu ; 

Or like the snow-falls in the river, 

A moment white — then melts for ever : 

Or like tbe borealis race, 

That flit ere you can point their place ; 

Or like the rainbow's lovely form 

Evanishing amid the storm. — 

Nae man can tether time nor tide : 

The hour approaches Tam maun ride ; 

That hour, o' night's black arch the keys 

That dreary hour he mounts his beast in, 



The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last ; 
The raltlin' showers rose on the blast : 
The speedy gleams the darkness swallow 'd ; 
Loud, deepi and lang, the thunder bellow 'd ; 



Weel mounted on his grey mare, Meg— 
A better never lifted leg— 
Tam skelpit on through dub and mire, 
Despising wind, and rain, nud fire ; 
Whiles holding fast his guid blue bonnet | 
SVhiies crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet; 
Whiles glow'ring round wi' prudent cores, 
Lest bogies catch him unawares ; 
Kirk-Aiioway was drawing nigh, 
Whare ghaists and houlets nightly cry — 

By this time he was cross the ford, 
^Yha^e in the snaw the chapman smoor'd : 
And past the birks and meikle staue, 
Whare drueken Charlie brak 's neck banc j 
And thro' the whins, and by the cairn, 
Whare hunters fand the murder 'd bairn : 
And near the thorn, aboon the well. 

Where Mungo's m;ther haug'd hersel 

Before him L'oon pours ail his floods 1 
'ihe doubling storm roars thro' the woods ; 
Ihe lightnings flash from pole to pole; 
Near and more r.tar the thunders roil ; 

en glimmering thro' the groaning trees, 
Kirk Ai:oway seeni'd in a bleeze ; 
Thro' ilka bore the beams were glancing, 
And loud resounded mirth and dancing — 

(uspirwg bold John Barleycorn ! 
What dangers thou canst make us scorn ! 
HV tippenny, we fear nae evil; 
Wi' usquebae we'll face the devil. — 
The swats sae ream'd in Tamniie's noddle, 
Fair play, he cared na deiis a boddle. 
But Maggie stood right sair astonish 'd, 
Till, by ihe heel and hand admouish'a, 
She ventured forward on the light ; 
Ajid, vow t Tam saw an nnco sight ! 
Warlocks and witches in a dauce ; 
Nae cotillon brent new frae France, 
But hornpipes, jigs, straihspeys, and rcelf, 
Put life and mettle in their neels. 
iunock-bunker in the east, . 
re sat auld Nick in shape o' beast ; 
wzie tyke, black, grim, and large. 
To gie them music was his charge: 
He screw'd his pipes and gart them skirl, 
Till roof and rafters a' did dirl.— 
Coffins stood round like open presses, 
That shaw'd the dead in their last die=ses ; 
/.ndby some devilish cantrip sleight, 
Each in its cauld hand held a light, — 
By which heroic Tam was able 
" p note upon the haly table, 

murderer's banes in gibbet aims ; 
va span-laug, wee uuchristeu'd bairns : 
A thief new-cutted frae a rape, 
' his last gasp his gab did gape : 
| Five tomahawks, wi* blude red-rusted ; 
j Five scimitars wi' murder crusted ; 

A garter which a babe had strangled ; 
I A ku:fe, a father's throat had mangled,, 
Whom his ain son o' life bereft. 
The grey hairs yet stack to the heft 
Wi* mair u' horrible and awfu' 
Which eT'n to name wad be unlawfu'. 

As Tammie glowr'J, amaz'd and curicu», 
The mirth and fun grew fast and furious : 
The piper loud and louder blew ; 
The daosers quick and quieker flew j 



BURNS.— POBMS. 



They rseKd, they set, they cross'.;, they 

cleek t, 
Till ilka carliu swat end reekit, 
And cuost her cuddies to the wink, 
Aad linkel at it iu ber bark ! 

Now Tain, O Tarn ! had they been queens, 
A' plump an' strapping, in their teens j 
Their sarka, instead o' creeshie limine:), 
Eeen snaw-white seventeen huuder linen 1 
Tliir breeks o' mine, mv only pair, 
That ance were plush o' gu;d blue hair, 
1 wad hae gi'eu them art my huidies I 
Fur ae blink o' the bonnie bardies J 

But witber'd beldams auld and droll, 
Rigwoodie hags wad spean a foal, 
Loupiug and flinging on a cruuiiuock, 
i wonder didua turn thy stomach. 

But Tam kenn'd what was what fV brawlie, 
There was ae winsome wench and walie, 
That night enlisted iu the core, 

iLang after kenn'd on Carrick shore ! 
^or uiunie a beast to dead she shot, 
And perish'd monie a bonnie boat, 
And shook bailh meikle corn an bear. 
And kept the country side in fear,) 
Her cutty sark o' Paialey ham, 
That while a lassie she had worn, 
In longitude though sorely scanty, 
It was her best, and she was v auntie,-— 
Ah! little kenn'd thy reverend Erauuie, 
That sark she coft for her wee Nannie, 
Wi' twa fund Scots, (*twa> a' her riches,) 
Wad ever graced a dance o' witches ! 

But here my muse ber wing maun cour : 
Sic flights are far beyond her power : 
To sing how Nannie" lap and Hang, 

iA sou pie jade she was an' Strang) 
in* how Tam stood like ane be\."i;ch'd, 
An' thought his very eeu eurich'd: 
Even Satan glowr'd and fidg'd IV fain, 
And hotch'd and blew wi' might and main : 
Till iirst ae caper, syne anither, 
Tam lint his reason a' thegither, 
And roars oif, " Weel done Cutty sark !" 
And in an instant all was dark ; 
And scarcely hid he Maggie rallied, 
When out the hellish legion sallied. 

As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke, 
When pluud'ring herds as»ail their b^ke ; 
As open pussie's mortal foes, 
When, pop 1 6he starts Before their nose ; 
As eager runs the market crowd, 
Wiijn «♦ Catch the thief!" resounds aloud ; 
So Maggie ru.is, the witches follow, 
Wi' uionie on eidriteh screech and hollow. 

Ah. Tam! Ah, Tain! thou'llget ihv fairin. 
In he'll they'll roast thee like a herrin ! 
In vain thy Kale awaits thy coinin ! 
Kate soon will be a waefu* woman • 
Now, do thy speedy utmost, Meg, 
And wiu the key-staneo' the brig ;* 



* It is a well known fact, that witcfies, or 
any evii spirits, have no power to follow a 
poor wight any farther than the middle of the 

next running stream It may be proper like- 

wise to icsnliou to the benighted traveller, 



There at thera thou thy tail may taae, 
A running stream they darena cross. 
But ere the key-»Une she could make, 
The tent a tail she had to shake t 
Kor Nannie, far before the rest, 
Hard upon noble Maggie press'd, 
And tlew ai Tam wi' furious ettle ; 
But l.ttle wist she Maggie's mettle— 
Ae spring brought art' her master hale, 
But left behind her aiu grey tail : 
The earlin caught her by the rump, 
An left poor Maggie scarce a stump. 

Now, wha this tale o* truth shall read, 
Ilk man and mother's son take heed : 
Whene'er to drink you are inclined. 
Or cutty sarks run in your iniud, 
Think ye may buy the joys o'er dear, 
"' i o' Shanter's mure. 



ON SEEING A WOUNDED HARE 
LIMP BY ME, 

WHICH A FELLOW HAD JUST SHOT AT. 

Inhuman mau ! curse on thy barbarous art. 
And blasted be thy murder-aiining eye : 
Ma$ never pity soo:he thee with a sigh, 

Nor ever pleasure glad thy cruel heart ! 

Go live, poot wanderer of the wood and field, 
'Ihe bitter little that of life remains : 
No more the thickening brakes and verdant 
plains, 

To thee shall home, or food, or pastime yield. 



Seek, mangled wretch, some plac 



of •, 



uted 



No more of rest, but now thy dying bed ! 
The shelt'ring rushes whistling o'er thy 

The cold earth with thy bloody bosom press'd. 

Oft as by winding Nith, I musing wait 
The sober eve, or hail the cheerful dawn, 
I'll miss thee sporting o'er the dewy lawn. 

And curse the ruifiau's aim, and mourn lb) 
hapless fate. 



ADDRESS TO THE SHADE OP 
THOMSON, 

ON CROWNING HIS BUST AT EDNAM, ROX- 
BURGHSHIRE, WITH BAV3. 
While virgin Spring, by Eden's flood, 

Unfolds her tender mautle green, 
Or pranks the sod iu frolic mood, 

Or tunes Eoliaa strains between : 

While Summer, with a matron grace, 
Retreats to Drv burgh's cooling shade, 

Yet oft, delighted, stops to trace 
The progress of the spiky blade : 

While Autumn, benefactor kind, 
By Tweed erects his aged head, 

that when ha falls in with bogles, whaterejr 
danger may be in his going forward, there la 
( much more haaard in turning bask. 



4W 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



While maniac Winter rages o'er 
The hills whence classic Yarrow fi 

Rousing the turbid torrent's roar, 
Or sweeping, wild, a waste of sno 



FOR G. H. Esq. 



The noor man 


weeps -here G ■ 




r.g wretches blaiu'd : 


But with such 


as he, where'er lie be 


May I be sa 


■'dord dP 



EPITAPHS. 



ON A CELEERATED RULING 
ELDER. 

Here souter John in death does sleen : 
To hell, if he's gane thilher, 

Satan, gie him thy gear to keep, 
He'l. iiiaid it we el thegither." 



OX A NOISY POLEMIC. 

Below thir sianes lie Jamie's banes : 

O Dea;h, it's my opinion. 
Thou ne'er took such a bleth'rin bitch 

Into thy dark dominion ! 



ON WEE JOHNNY. 
Hicjacet wee Johnny. 

Whoe'er thcu art, O reader, know, 
That death has murder'd Johnny, 

In' here his body lies fu' low — 
For saul, he ne'er had onv. 



A BARD'S EPITAPH. 

Is there a whim-inspired fool, 
Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule, 
Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool, 

Let him draw near ; 
Aid owre this grassy heap sing dool> 
And drap a tear. 

Is there a bard of rustic song, 
%Yho, noteless, steals the crowds among, 
hat weekly this area throng, 

O, pass not by! 
But, with a trater feeling strong, 

Here heave a sigh. 

Is there a man, whose judgment clear, 

Can others teach the course to steer, 

runs, himself, life's mad career. 

Wild as the wave; 

Here pause — and, through the starting tear 

Survey this gTa\e. 

The poor inhabitant below, 
Was quick to learn and wise to know, 
And Keenh felt the friendly glow, 

And softer tlame. 
But thoughtless follies laid him low, 

And slain 'd his name ! 

Reader, attend — whether thy soul 

So^rs famy's flights beyond the pole, 
Or darkly grubs this earthly hole. 

In low pursuit ; 
Know, prudent, cautious, self-control, 

Is wisdom's root. 



FOR THE AUTHOR'S FATHER. 

ye whose cheek the tear of pity stains, 
Draw near with pious rev'rence and attend '. 
')ving husband's dear remains, 
' e gen'rous friend. 

The pitying heart that felt for human woe ; 
The dauntless heart that fear'd no human 

The friend of roan, 'o vice alone a foe ; 

"For ev'n his failings lean'd to virtue's 



FOR R. A. Esq. 



I 



ON THE LATE CAPTAIN GROSE'S 

PEREGRINATIONS THROUGH SCOTLAND, 



Hear, Land o' Cakes, and brither Scots, 
Frae Maidenkirk to Johnny Groat's ; 
If there's a hole in a' your coats, 

I rede ye tent it: 
A chielu's amang you, taking notes, 

And, faith, he'll prent It 

If in your bounds ye chance to light 
Upon a tine, fat, fodgel wight, 
O' stature short, but genius bright. 

That's he, mark we«i_- 



/m?i\ f *--- K 







'J> M I 







•i nn 



- 



11^3 



BURiVS.— POEMS. 



By some auld, houlet-baunted biggin,* 
Or kirk, deserted by its rigsin, 
It's ten to ane ye '11 find him snug in 
Some eldritch part, 
Wi* dcils, they say, L— d safe's ! co'.leaguin 
At some black art. 



Ilk ghaist that haunts auld ha' or chamer, 
ST e gipsy-gang that deal in glamor, 
And you deep-read in hell's black grammar, 

"Warlocks and witches ; 
Ye'll quake at his conjuring hammer. 

Ye midnight bitches. 



It's tauld he was a sodger bred, 
And ane wad rather fa'n than fled ; 
But now he's quat the sportle blade. 

And dog-skin wallet, 
And ta'en the — Autiquarian trade, 

I think they call it. 



He has a fouth o' auld nick-nackets ; 
Rusty aim caps and jinglin' jackets. + 
Wad'haud the Lothians three in tackets, 

A towmont guid: 
And parTitch-pats, and auld saut-backets, 
Before the flood. 



Of Eye's first fire he has a cinder : 
Auld Tubal-Cain's fire-shool and fender ; 
That which distinguished the gender 

6' Balaam's a6s ; 
A broom-stick o' the witch of Endor, 

Wee! shod wi' brass. 

Forbve he'll shnpe you aff, fu' gles, 
The cut of Adam's philibe^ ; 
The knife that nicket Abel's craig, 

He'll prove you fully, 
It was a faulding jocteleg, 

Or lang-kailgnllie.— 



But wad ye see him in his glee, 
For meikle glee and fun has he, 
Then set him down, and twa or three 

Guid fellows wi' him 
And port, O port ! shine thou a wee. 

And then ye'U see hin 



and prose 1 



Now, by the powers o' verse anc 
Thou art a dainty chiel, O Grose J 
Whoe'er o' thee shall ill suppose, 

They sair misca' thee ; 
I'd take the rascal by the nose. 

Wad say, Shame fa' thee ! 



K Vide his Antiquities of Scotland. 
t Vide his treatise on Ancient Armour and 
Wsapons. 



TO MISS CftUIKSHANKS. 

L YERY YOXTSG UDr, WRITTEN ON TKB 
BLANK LEAF OK A BOOK, PRESKNTED 
TO HER BY THE AUTHOR. 



Beauteous rose-hud, young aud gay, 
jilooming on thy early May,' 
Never raay'st thou, lovely flow'r, 
Chilly shrink in sleety show'r! 
Never Boreas' hoary path, 
Never Eurus' pois'uous breath, 
Never baleful stellar lights. 
Taint thee with untimely blights * 
Never, never reptile thief 
Riot on thy virgin leaf! 
Nor ever Sol too fiercely view 
Thy bosom biushiug sti'll with dew ! 

May'st thou long, sweet crimson gem. 
Richly deck thy native stem ; 
Till some ev'ning, sober, calm, 
Dropping dews, and breathing balm. 
While all around the woodland rings, 
Aud ev'ry bird thy requiem sings ; 
Thou, amid the cirgtr'ul sound, 
Shed thy dying honours round. 
And reMgn to parent earth 
The loveliest form she e'er gave birth. 



Luna, lay charms my bosom fire, 
And waste my soul with care; 

Jut, ah '. how bootless to admire, 
When fated to despair I 

let in thy presence, lovely Fair, 
To hope may Le i'orgiven ; 

"or sure 'twere impious to despair, 
So much in sight of Heaveu. 



ON READING, IN A NEWSPAPER , 

THE DEATH OF JOHN M'LEOD, ESQ. 



Sad thy tale, thou idle page, 

And rueful thy alarms : 
Death tears the brother of her love 

From Isabella's arms. 

Sweetly deck'd with pearly dew 
The morning rose may blow ; 

But cold successive noontide blasts 
May lay its beauties low. 

Fair on Isabella's morn 

The sun propitious smiled; ' 

But long ere noon, succeeding cloud* 

Succeeding hopes beguiled. 

Fate oft tears the bosom chordr 

That nature finest strung ; 
So Isabella's heart was forni'd. 

And so that heart wsi wrung. 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



Dread Omnipotence, dtone, 
Can heal the wound he gave ; 

Can point the brimful <;rief-woru 
To scenes beyond the grave. 

Virtuous blossoms there shall b!o 
And fear no withering blast ; 

There Isabella's spotless worth 
Shall happy be at last. 



HUMBLE PETITION OF BRUAR 
WATER.* 

TO THE XOBI.E DUKE CF ATHOLE. 

My Lord, I know vour noble ear 

'Woe ne'er assails in vain ; 
Bmbolden'd thus, I beg ycu'll hear 

Your humble slave complain, 
How saucy Phoebus' scorching beams, 

Iu flaming summer-pride, 
Dry-withering, waste my foaming streams, 

And drink my crystal tide. 

The lightly jumping ^lowrin tro its, 

That thro' my waters play, 
If, in their random, wanton spouts, 

Tiiey near the inargi 1 sTay ; 

1", ha;, less chance '. ihey 1 :n:er lang, 

I'm scorching up so shallow, 
They're lest the whit'i.ing stanes aniang, 

Iu gasping death to wallow. 



:t day I grat, 



spite and Si 
eby. 



That, lo a bard I should be seen, 
Wi' half my channel dry ; 

Even as I was he shored me : 
Eui had I in my glory been, 
lie, kneeling, wa.d auured me. 

Here, foaming down the sbeivy rocks, 

In twisting strength I riii; 
There, higb/mv boiling to rent smokes. 

Wild-roaring o'er a linn : 
Enjoy ng iarze each spring ai.d well 

lam, although I raj 'tmysel. 

Worth gaun a mile to see. 

Would then my noble master please 

To grant my highest wishes, 
HeM shade my banks wi' tow'ring trees, 

And bonnie spreading bushes ; 
Del.ghted doubly then, my Lord, 

You'll wander on my banks, 
And listen uiouy a grateful bird 

Return you tuneful thanks. 

The sober laverock warbling wild, 

Shall to the sk.es aspire ; 
The gowdspiuk, music's gayest child, 

Shall sweetly join the choir : 
The blackbird strong, the lintwhite clear, 

The mavis wild and mellow, 



• Bruar Fails, in Athole, are exceedingly 
picturesque and beautiful ; but their efiV 
much impaired by the want of trees 



This too, 



shall ii 



Tc shield tbeui (ruin the storn ; 
And coward niaukia sleep secure, 

Low in her grassy form ; 
Here shall the shepherd Make his seat, 

To weave his crown of tiov>ers ; 
Or find a >he!t'ring safe retreat, 

From proue descending showers. 

And here, by sweet endearing st :&3ih, 

Sha 1 meei the loving pair. 
Despising worids wilh-all their wealth 

As empty idle care: 
The lowers shall vie in all their chorda 

The hour of heaven to grace, 
And birks extend their fragrant arms 

To screen the dear embrace. 

U*re, haply too, at vernal dawn, 

Some musing bard may =,truy, 
And eye the sin. king, uewy la.- II, 
sty mountain, grey ; 



Let lofty firs, and ashes coo!, 

My lowly banks o'ersprcai*, 
And view, deep-bending in the : 

Their shadows' watery bed ! 
Let fragrant birks in woodbines 

My craggy cliffs adorn ; 
An-i'for the little songster's Ileal 

The close erabow'riug thui.u 

So may old Sjotla"? dari::. .• i. - 

Your little angel band, 
Sprin?, like their father-,, u:» So 

Their honuur'dn-. 
So may, thro' Albion's farina! 

Tu social flowing glasses, 
The grace be— " Athole's bone< 

And Athole's bonuie las s e 3 1 " 



ON SCARING SOME WATER-Ft I 



O-S LOCH-TVK 



Why, ye tenants of the lake, 
For me vour watery haunt f.irsake ? 
Tell me, fellow-creatures, why 
At my presence thus yen fig ? 
Why disturb your social joys. 
Parent, filial, kindred ties 2 
Common friend to you and me, 
Nature's gifts to all are free : 
Peaceful keep your dimpling wave. 
Busy feed, or wanton lave ; 
Or, beneath the sheltering rock, ' 

Bide the surging billow's shock* 

Conscious, blushing for our race* 
Soon, too soon, your fears I trace, 
Man, your proud, usurping foe, 
Would be lord of all below ; 



BURNS POBMSL 



The eagle, from the cliffy brow, 
Marking- you his prey below. 
In his breast no pity dwells, 
Strong necessity compels. 
But man, to whom alone is giv'n 
A ray direct from pitying heav'n, 
Glorious in his heart humane — 
And creatures for his pleasure slain. 

In these savage, liquid plains, 
Only known to wand'ring swains, 
Where the mossy riv'let strays: 
Far from human haunts and ways ; 
All on Nature you depend, 
And life's poor season peaceful spend. 

Or, if man's superior might, 
Pare invade your native right, 
On the loftv el her borne, 
Man with all his pow'rs you scorn ; 
Swiftly seek, on clanging wings, 
Oiher lakes and other springs ; 
And the foe you cannot brave, 
Scoru at least to be his slave. 



Hers heart-struck Grief might heaven -ward 

6tretch her scan, 
And injured Worth forget and pardan man. 



WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL, 



Among the heathy hills and ragged woods 
The roaring Fyers pours his mossy floods; 
Till full he dashes on the rocky mounds, 
Where, thro' a shapeless breach, his streai 
resounds. 

As high in air the bursting torrents flow, 

As deep recoiling surges foam below, 

Prone down the rock the whitening shoot d« 

And riewless echo's ear, astonish 'd, rends. 
Dim-seen, through rising mists, and ceasele> 

The hoary cavern, wide-surrounding, lowers. 
Still thro"' the gap the strutting rircr toils, 
And stili belo-.v, the horrid caldron boils. 



WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL 

OVER THE CHIMNEY-PIECE IN THE TAB- 
LOUR OF THE INN AT KENMORB, TAS- 
MOUTH. 

Admiring Nature in her wildest grace, 

These northern scenes with weary feet I trace ; 

O'er many a winding dale and painful steep, t 

'I'll* abodes of covey 'd grouse and timid sheep, 

My savage journey, curious, I pursue, 

Till famed Breadalbane opens to my view. — 

The meeting cliffs each deep-sunk glen di- 

The woods, w ild-scatter'd, clothe their ample 

An ou'stretching lake, embosom'd 'mong the 

hills. 
The eye with wonder and amazement fills ; 
The Tay meand'ring sweet in infant pride, 
The palace rising on his verdant side, 
The lawns wood fringed in Nature's native 

Tire hillocks dropt in Nature's careless haste I 
The arches striding o'er the new-born stream \ 
The village, glittering in the noontide beam — 

Poetic ardours in my bosom swell, 
Lone wandering by the hermit's mossy cell : 
The sweeping theatre of hanging woods; 
The incessant roar of headlong tumbling 



Here Poesy might wake her heav'n-taugM 

lyre, 
And look through nature with creative fire t 
Here, to the wrongs of fate half reconciled, 
Misfortune's lighten'd steps might wander 

wild ; 
And Disappointment, in these lonely bounds, 
Kind balm to soothe her bitter rankling 

wounds : 



ON THE tntTB 07 

A POSTHUMOUS CHILD, 

BOKN IS PECULIAR CIRCUMSTANCES OP 
FAMILY DISTRESS. 

Sweet Flow'rot, pledge o' meikle love. 

And ward o' inony a prayer, 
What heart o' stane wad thou na move, 

Sae helpless, sweet, and fair! 

November hirples o'er the lea, 

Chill on thy lovely form ; 
And gane, alas ! the sheltering tree, 

Should shield thee frae the storm. 

May He who gives the rain to pour, 

And wings the blast to blaw. 
Protect thee frae the driving slower, 

The bitter frost and snaw ! 

May He. the friend of woe and want. 
Who heals life's various stoun'J.H, 

Protect and guard the mother plant, 
And heal her cruel wounds ! 

But late she floursh'd, rooted fast, 

Now feebly bends she in the blast, 
Unsheher'd and forlorn. 

Dless'd be thy bloom, thou lovely gem, 

Unscathed by ruffian hand '. 
And from thee many a parent stem 

Arise to deck our land ! 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



THE WHISTLE : 



As the authentic prose history of the 'Whistle 

fe carious, I shall here give it In the train 

of Anne of Denmark, when she cj:-; SmC- 
lani with oar James the Sixth, there came 
crer also a Danish geatlernin at : 
tare and great prowess, and a matchless cham- 
pion of Bacchus. He had a little ebony 
Whistle which at the commencement of the 
orgies he laid on the table, and whoever was 
last able to blow i', every b dy else beiug dis- 
abled by the potency of the bottle, was to carry 
off the'Whistle as'a trophy of victory. The 
Dane produced credentials of his victories, 
without a single defeat, at the courts of C peu- 
bagen, Stockholm, Mo=«ow, Warsaw, and 
several of the petty courts in Germany, and 
challenged the Scots Bacchanalians to the al- 
ternative of trying his prowess, or else of ac- 
knowledging their inferiority- After many 
overthrows on the part of the Scots, the Dai:e 
was encountered by Sir Robert Lawrie of 
Maxwelton, ancestor to the press 
baronet of that name ; who, after three days 
and three nights' hard contest, .;:. he r. in- 
dinavian under the table, 

And blew on the Whistle his requiem shrill. 

S: Walter, son to Sir Robert before men- 
tioned, afterwards lost the Whistle to Waiter 
Riddel, of Glenriddel, who had married a 
sister of Sir Walter's. — On Friday the 16th 
of October, 1790, at Friars Carse.'ihe \\ h;s- 
tle was once more contended for, as related in 
the ballad, by the present Sir Robert Lawrie of 
Maxwellon ; Robert Riddel, Hsq. ofUlenrid- 
ii'., l.:.fi i:;:T ....: i.::l :; : ., 
Walter Riddel, who won the Whistle, and in 
■whose family it had continued ; and Alexander 
Ferguson, Esq. of Craigdarroch, likewise de- 
scended of the great Sir Rjbert ; which Isst 
gentleman carried off the hard-won houours cf 
the iieid. 



I sing of a Whistle, a Whistle of worth, 
I sing of a Whistle, the price of the North. 
Was brought to the court of our good Scottish 

And long with this Whistle all Scotland shall 
nag. 



Till Robert, the lord of the Cairn and ib« 

; L"nn:atch'd at the bottle, unconquer'd in war, 
Ue drank Lis poor gods hip as deep as the 

Xo tide cf the Baltic e'er drunker than hi. 

j Tims Robert victorious, the trophy has 

: Which now in his hoase has for ages re- 

ree r.oble chieftains, and ali of his 
blood, 
The jovial contest again have renew 'd. 

I Three jovous good fellows, with hearts clear 
of daw ; 
u _ gdarroch, so famous for wit, worth, and 



Cr-Jgdarroch begin, with a tongue smooth 



1 claret, try which was the 



' By the gods of the ancients 



And bumper his horn with him twenty times 



Sir Robert, a soldier, no speech would pre- 
d his foe— or his 



= --. 



Bat he ne'er turn'd his back o 

Said, To»5 down t>e Whisile, the prize of the 

field, 
And knee-deep in claret, he'd die or he'd 

yield. 

To the board of G'.enriddel our heroes re> 



" TL = W_ : •.;-'-■.;.:.-:'.■._. . r ;. : - ; . : : -. 1 

get o'er, 
And drink them to hell, 5;r ! cr ne'er see me 

Old poets have sung, and old chronicles tell, 
What champions veutured, what champion 
fell; 



A bard was selected to witness the fray ; 
And tell future ages the feats of the day ; 

.. ho detested all sadness and spleen, 
-i: ! d that Parnassus a vineyard had 

The dinner being over, the claret they pi r, 
ijid ev'ry new cork is a new spring of joy, 
In the bands of old friendship and kindred so 



.-.'s Tcur £o the Hebr' 



BURNS POEMS. 



Gay pleasure ran riot as bumpers ran o'er ; 
Bright Phoebus ne'er witness'd so joyous 

And vowed that to leave them he was quite 

forlorn, 
Till Cynthia hinted he'd see them next mi 

Sis bottles a-piece had well worn out the 
night, 
When gallant Sir Robert, to finish the fight, 
Turn'd o'er in one Dumper a bottle of red, 
Aud swore 'twas the way that their ancesto 
did. 

Then worthy Glenriddel, so cautious and 
sage, 
No longer the warfare ungodly would wage ; 
A high ruling Elder to wallow in wine i 
He left the foul business to folks less divine. 

The gallant Sir Robert fought hard to the 
But who can with fate and quart bumpers con- 

TJiough fate said— a hero should perish in 

light ; 
So up rose blight Phoebus and down fell the 

knight. 



Next up r 



r bard, like a prophet 



e struggled for Freedc 



I 



«' Thy line 

with Hruee, 
Shall heroes and patriots ever j 
So thine be tUe laurel, and niin 
The field lb' u hast won, by yoi 

day I " 



SECOND EPISTLE TO DAVIE, 

A BROTH SLR POET.* 

AVLT) NEEBOR, 
I'm three times doubly o'er your debtor, 
For jour aulJ-fdrrent, frien'ly lettei ; 
Tho' I maun say't, I doubt ye flatter, 

Ye speak so fair s 
For my puir, silly, rhyiniu' clutter, 

Some l:ss inauu sair. 

Hale be your heart, hale be your fiddle ; 
Lang may your elbuck jink and diddle, 
Tae cheer you through the weary widule 

O' warly cares, 
Till bairns' bairns kindly cuddle 

Your auld grey hairs. 



* This is prefixed to the poems of David 
Sillar. published at Kilmarnock, 1789, an.l 
has not before appeared in our author's printed 
poems. 



But Davie, lad, I'm red ye'er glaikit j 
I'm tauld the Muse ye hae negleckit ; 
An' gif it's sae, ye sud be lickit 

Until ye fyke ; 
Sic hans as you sud ne'er be faikit, 

Be hain't wha like. 

For me, I'm on Parnassus' brink, 

Rivin' the words tae gar them clink ; [drink, 

Whyles daez't wi' love, whyles daez't wi' 

Wi' jads or masons ; 
An' whyles, but aye owre late, I think, 

Braw sober lessons. 

Of a' the thoughtless sons o' man, 
Commen' me to the bardie clan ; 
Except it be some idle plan 

O' rhymin* clink, 
The devil-haet, that I suld ban, 

They ever think. 



, nae scheme of litln' ; 



Nae thought, n 

Nae cares to gie us joy or grievin' : 

But just the pouchie put the nieve in, 

An' while ought's there, 
Then, hiltie, skiltie, we gae scrievin', 

An' fash nae mair. 

Leeze me on rhyme I its aye a treasure, 
My chief, amais; my only pleasure, 
At hame, a-fiel', at wark or leis 



The Muse, poor hizzIeJ 



Tho' rough an' raploch be lu. ... 

She's seldom lazy, 

Haud tae the Muse, my dainty Davie ; 
The warl' may piny you mony a shavie?$ 
But for the Mu^e, she'll never leave yt, 

Tho' e'er sae poor, 
even tho' limpin' wi' the spavie 

Frae door to door. 



ON MY EARLY DAYS. 



I ni'nd it weel, in early date, 

When I was beardless, young, and blale, 

An' first could thresh the barn ; 
Or lnud a \okin o' the pleugh ; 
An' tho' forfoughten sair enough, 

Yet unco proud to learn; 
When first amang the yellow corn 

A man I reekon'd was, 
And wi' the lave ilk merry morn 

Could rank my rig and lass, 



1 =,he;'r 






stooked raw, 
Wi' claivers, an* haivers, 
Wearing the day awa. 

It. 

E'en then a wish, I mitid its pow'r, 
A wish that to my latest hour 

Shall strongly heave my breast, 
That I for poor auld Scotland's sake 
Some usefu' plan or book could make, 

Or sing a sang at least. 
The rough burr-thistle, spreading wide 

Amang the bearded bear, 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 

sing blast roar'd round tbe beetling 



My eDvy e'er could raise, 
A Scot still, but blot still, 
I knew nae higher praise. 

in. 

But still the elements o' sang 
In formless jumble, right an' wra 

"Wild floated in my brain : 
♦Till on that har'st I said before, 
My' partner in the merry core, 

She roused the forming s'rain : 
I see her yet. tbe sonsie queen, 

That lighted up her jingle, 
Her witching smile, her paukv e< 
That gart my heart-strings t 
I fired, inspired, 

At every kindling keek. 

But bashing, and dashing, 

I feared aje to speak*. 



>>•:'<: 



SONG. 

"Bonnie Dundee." 

ere dwells six proper your.g 

and its neighbour- 

i stranger woul 

s they'd gotten it a'. 
Miss MiJler is line, Miss Markland s divine, 
Kiss bmithshe has wit, and Miss Betty i 

Iliere's beauty and fortune to get wi' Mis 
Morton, 
But Armour's [ the jewel for me o' them a". 



The clouds, sw 

ry sky, 

The groaning tree 

And shooting i 
eye. 



Wild to my heart the filial pulses glow, 

'Twas Caledonia's tronhied shield I view'd ; 

Her form majestic droop'd in pensive woe, 
Ihe lightning of bet eye in tears imbued, 

Reversed that spear, redoubtable in wnr, 
ReclinNl that banner, erst in fields ub- 
furl'd, 

rh.it like a deatiiful meteor gleam'd pfor, 
And braved the mighty muuarcha of the 



Tune— 



belles. 
The pride of the p'a 

llieir carriage and dress, 
guess, 
In Lon ', 



wl«L- 



' My patriot son fills 
■Willi accents wild and lified 
' Low lies the hand that oft 



ely grave!" 

he cried ; 

etch'd to 

the hear: that swell' J with honest 






s tear, 



« I saw my sons resume their ancient fire ; 

I saw fair Freedom's blossoms richly blow ! 
Jut, ah I bow hope is born but to expire ! 

Relentless fate has laid the guardian low. — 



ON THE DEATH OF 

SIR JAMES HUNTER BLAIR. 



Th' inconstant blast howl'J thro' the darken- 

And hollow whistled in tbe rocky eave. 

Lone as I wander 'd by each cliff and dell, 
Once the loved haunts' of Scotia's royal 

Or mused where limpid sfreams, once hallow 'd 
well,? 
Or mould 'ring ruins mark the sacred fane, j] 

* The reader will find some explanation of 
this poem, in page 1L 

t This is one of our Bard'3 early produc- 
tions. Miss Armour is now Mrs Bums. 

X The King's Park at Hoi) rood- house. 

6 St Anthony's Well. 

ft Bt Anthony's Chapel. 



' And I v 

Thro' fi 

That dis 



ill join a mother's tender cares, 
ture times to make his virtues la< 
ant years may boast of other 



IN TriE BLANK LEAK OF A COPY OF THE 
POEM?. PRESENTED TO AN OLO SWEET 
HEART, THEN MARRIED. * 

)nce fondly lov'd, and still remember'd dear, 
Sweet early object of my youthful vows. 



BURNS.— POEMS. 



- -cept tills mark of friendship, warm, sincere, 
Friendship! 'tis all cold duty now al- 



| id when you read the simple artless rhymes 
One frieudly sigh for him, he asks no more, 

• I ho distant burns in flaming torrid climes, 
Or haply lies beneath th' Atlantic roar. 



THE JOLLY BEGGARS: 
A CANTATA. 



RECITATIVO. 

'hen lyart leaves bestrow the yird, 
•r wavering like the bauckie-bird,* 

13edim cauld Boreas' blast ; 
. lien hailstanes drive wi' bitter skyte, 
A ad infant frosts begin to bite, 
In hoary cranreuch drest ; 
Ae night at een a merry core, 
O' randie, gangrel bodies, 
i Poosie-Nansie's held the splore, 
To drink their orra duddies : 
Wi' quaffing and laughing, 

They ranted and the) sang ; 
"Wi' jumping and thumping, 
The very girdle rang. 

• irst, neist the fire, in auld red rags, 
\ue sat, weel brac'd wi' me;ily bags, 

And knapsack a' in order ; 
iiis doxy lay within his arm, 
ii' usquebaean' blankets warm- 
She blinket on her sodger : 
\n' aye he gies the touzie drab 
The titberskelpiu' kiss, 
V'hile she held up her greedy gab 
Just like an a'nious dish. 

Ilk smack stil! did crack still, 

Just like a cadger's whip, 

Then staggering and swaggering 

He roar'd this ditty up — 

AIK. 

Tune—" Soldier's Joy. " 



I am a son of Mars who have been in many 

And show my cuts and scars whoever I come; 
This here was for a wench, and that other in 

When welcoming the French at the sound of 
the drum. 

Lai de dandle, &c. 

II. 

My 'prenticeship I pass'd where my leader 

breath'd his last, 
When the bloody die was cast on the hni-'hts 

ofAlram: 
1 served out my trade when the gallant game 

was play'd, 






And the Moro low was laid at the sound of th* 
Lai de dandle, &c. 



I lastly was wiln Curtis, among the floating 

batt'ries, 
And there I left for witness an arm and a 

limb ; 
Yet let my country need me, with Elliot to 

head me, 
I'd clatter on my stumps at the sound of the: 

drum. 

Lai de daudle, &c 

IV. 

And now though I must beg with a wooden 

arm and leg, 
And many a tatter'd rag hanging over my 

bum, 
I'm as happy with my wallet, my bottle and 

my callet, 
As when I used in scarlet to follow the drum. 
Lai de daudle, &c. 



* The old Scotch name for the bat. 



What tho' with hoary locks, I must stand the 

winter shocks, 
Beneath the woods and rocks often times for a 

When the tother bag I sell, and the tother 

bottle tell, 
I could meet a troop of hell, at the sound of 

the drum. 

Lai de daudle, &c 

KECITATITO. 

He ended ; and the kebars sheuk, 

Aboon the chorus roar ; 
While frighted rattans backward leuk, 

And seek the bentnost bore ; 
A fairy fiddler frae the neuk, 

He skirl'd out encore ! 
But up arose the martial chuck. 

And laid the loud uproar. 

AIR. 
Tune—' 1 Soldier Laddie. '' 



ce was a maid, tho' I cannot tell when, 
And still my delight is in proper young men ; 
Some one of a troop of dragoons was my 

daddie, 
No wonder I'm fond of a sodger laddie. 
Sing, Lai de lal, &c 

II. 

The first of my loves was a swaggering blade, 
To rattle the thundering drum was his trade; 
His leg was so tight, and his cheek was so 

Transported was I with my sodger laddie. 
Sing, Lal de lal, &c. 

III. 

But the godly old chaplain left him in the 

lurch, 
So the sword I forsook for the sake of the 

church, 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



He vjntur'd the soul and I risked the body, 
Twas theu I piov'd false to my sodger laddie. 
Sing, Lai de lal, &c 

IV. 

Full soon I grew sick of the sanctified sot, 
The re<*imeni at large for a husband I got ; 
From the gilded spontoon to the fife I was 

I asked no more but a sodger laddie. 

Sing, Lal de lal, &c. 

V. 

ne to beg in despair, 
a Cunningham fair ; 
His" rags regimental they flutter'd so gaudy, 
Mv heart it~reioiced at my sodger laddie, 
Sing, Lal de lal, &c. 

VI. 

And now I have liv'd— I know not how long, 

And still I can join in a cup or a song ; 

But whilst with both hands I can hold the 

glass sieady, 
Here's to thee, my hero, mv sodger laddie. 
Sing, Lal de lal, &c. 

REGIT ATI YO- 

Then niest outspak a raucle carlin, 
"VVha kent sae weel to cleek the sterling, 
For monie a pursie she had hooked, 
And had in mony a well been ducked. 
Her dove had been a Highland laddie, 
.Hut weary fa' the waefu' woodie ! 
Wi' sighs and sobs she thus began 
To wail her braw John Highlandman. 



Tune «« O an' ye were dead Gudeman. 

A Highland lad my love was born, 
The Lailand laws he held in scorn ; 
But he still was faithfu' to his clan, 
IVly gallant braw John Highlandman. 

CHORUS. 

Sin", hey my braw John Highlandman . 
Sin°, ho my braw John Highlandman . 
There's not a lad in a' the Ian 
Was match for my John Highlandman. 

n. 

With his philibeg an' tartan plaid, 
An' gude claymore down by his side, 
The ladies' hearts he did trepan, 
Mv ^ailaut braw John Highlandman. 
Sing, hey, &c 

ni, 

We ranged a' from Tweed to Spey, 
An' lived like lords and ladies gay ; 
Frr a Lailand face he feared none, 
Mv g aliact braw John Highlandman, 
Sing, hey, &c 

IV. 



Adown my cheeks the pearls ran, 
Embracing my John Highlandman. 
Sing, hey, &c. 



But, oh ! they catch'd him at the last f 
Aud bound him in a dungeon fast : 
My curse upon them every one. 
They'-, ' 

VI. 

And now a widow, I must mourn 
The pleasures that will ne'er return ; 
No comfort but a hearty can, 
When I think on Johu Highlandman. 
Sing, hey, &c 

RECITATIYO. 






A pigmy scraper, 



ri' his fiddle, 
Wha used at trysts and fairs to driddle, 
Her strappan limb and gawsy middle 

He reach'd nae higher. 
Had hoi'd his heanie like a riddle. 

An' blawn't on fire. 

Wi' hand on haunch, an' upward e'e, 
He croon'd his gamut, one, two, three, 
Then in an Arioso key, 

The wee Apollo 
Set off wi' Allegretto glee 



AIR. 
Tune —** Whistle owre the lave o 

I. 

Let me ryke up to dight that tear, 
\n' go wi' me and be my dear, 
An' then your every care and fear 
May whistle owre the lave o U 

CHORUS. 

I am a fiddler to my trade, 
An' a' the tunes that e'er I play 
The sweetest still to wife or man 
Was whistle owre the lave o t. 

II. 

At kirns and weddings v-e'se be there 
An' O 1 sae nicely's we will tare ; 
We'll bouse about till Daddie Care 
n»s whistle o'er the lave o r. 



IV. 



But bless me wi' your heaven o' charms, 
And while I kittle nair on tha.rms, 
Hunger, cauld, an* a' sick harms, 
May whistle owre the lave^u't. 




jfti^Sst 







BURNS POEMS. 



RECITATIVO. 



Her charms had struck a sturdy Caird, 

As weel as poor Gutscraper ; 
He taks the fiddler by the beard, 

And draws a rusty rapier — 
He swoor by a' was swearing worth, 

To speet him like a pliver, 
Unless he would from that time forth, 

.Relinquish her for ever. 

Wi* ghastly e'e, poor tvveedle dee 

Upon his hunkers bended, 
And pray'd for grace wi' ruefu' face, 

And sae the quarrel ended. 
But though his little heart did grieve, 

When round the tinkler prest her, 
He feign'd to snirtle in his sleeve, 

When thus the caird address'd her. 

AIR- 
Tune.—" Clout the Cauldron." 



My honnie lass, I work in brass, 

A tinkler is my station ; 
I've travell'd round all Christian ground 

In this my occupation, 
I've ta'en the gold, I've been enroll'd 

In many a noble squadron : 
Bat vain they seareii'd, when off I niarchM 

To go and clout the cauldron. 

I've ta'en the gold, &c. 

II. 

Despise that shrimp, that wither'd imp, 

Wi' a' his noise an' caprin', 
An' tak' a share wi' those that bear 

The budget an' the apron. 
An' by that stowp, my faith and houp, 

An' by that dear Keilbagie,* 
If e'er ye want, or meet wi' scant, 

May I ne'er weet my craigie. 

An' by that stowp, &c. 

RECITATIVO. 

The caird prevail 'd — the unblushing fair 

In his embraces sunk, 
Partly wi' loveo'ercome sae sair, 

An' partly she was drunk. 

ir Violino, with an air 

That show'd a man of spunk, 

fish'd unison between the pair, 

An' made the bottle clunk 

To their health that night. 

But hurchin Cupid shot a shaft 

That play'd a dame a shavie. 

The fiddler rak'd her fore and aft, 

ehint the chicken cavie. 
Her lord, a wight o' Homer's r craft, 

Tho' limping with the spavie, 
He hirpl'd up, and lap like daft, 
'n' shor'd them Daintie Davie 
O boot that night. 



vas a care-defying blade 
__ ; ever Bacchus listed, 
Though Fortune sair upon him laid, 

His heart she ever miss'd it. 
He had no wish but— to be glad, 

or want but — when he thirsted; 
He hated nought but — to be 6ad, 
And thus the Muse suggested, 

His sang that night. 

AIR. 

Tmie— " For a' that, an' a' that.' 



i a bard of no regard, 
'i' gentle folks, an' a' that : 
But Homer-like, the glowran byke, 
Frae town to town I draw that. 



I've lost but ane, I've twa behin' 
I've wife enough for a' that. 

II. 

I never drank the Muse's stank, 

Castalia's burn, an' a' that ; 
But there it streams, and richly reams, 

My Helicon I ca' that. 

For a» that, &c. 

III. 

Great love I bear to a' the fair, 
Their humble slave, an' a' that ; 

But lordly will, I hold it still 
1 mortal sin to thraw that. 

For a' that, &c. 

IV. 

In raptures sweet, this hour we meet, 

Wi' mutual love an' a' that ; 
But for how lang the flie may stang, 

Let inclination law that. 

For a' that, &c. 

V. 

Their tricks and craft have put me daft, 
They've ta'en me in an' a' that: 

But clear your decks, and here's— the sex! 
I like the juds for a' that. 



RECITATIVO. 

So sung the bard— and Nansie's wa' 
Shook with a thunder of applause, 

Re echo 'd from each mouih ; 
They toom'd their pocks, an* pawn*d theii 



A peculiar sort of whisky so called, a 
great favourite with Poosie-Nansie's clubs. 

+ Homer is allowed to be the oldest lallad- 
iinger on record. 



Thenowre again, the jovial thrang, 

The poet did request, 
To lowse his pack an' wale a sang, 

A ballad o' the best: 



H* rising, rejoicing, 

Between his twa Deborahs, 
Looks round him, an' found them 

Impatient for the chorus. 



DIAMOND CABIX£T LIBRARY. 

There's a heretic blast has been blawn in ih* 
wast, 
That what is no sense mus 



Tune — «• Jolly Mortals fill jour Glasses.' 



See the smoking bowl before us, 
Mark our jovial ragged ring ! 

Round and round take up the chorus, 
And in raptures 'let as sing. 



A fig for those by law protected ! 

Liberty's a glorious feast ! 
Courts for oowards were erected, 

Churehes built to please the priest. 

IL 

What is title ? what is treasure ? 

What is reputation's care ? 
If we lead a life of pleasure, 

'Tis no matter how or where .' 

A fig, &c. 

IIL 

With the ready trick and fable, 
Round we wander all the day ; 

And at night in barn or stable ; 
Hug our doxies on the hav. 

A fig, &c. 

IV. 

Docs the train-attended carriage 
Through the country lighter rove ' 

Does the sober bed of marriage 
Witness brighter scenes of love ? 



Here's to budgets, bags, and wallets '. 

Here's to all the waud'ring train! 
Here's our ragged brats and callet* ! 

One and all cry out, Atnen J 

A fig for thooe by law protected ! 

Liberty 's a glorious feast I 
Courts for cowards were erected, 

Churches built to please the priest. 



THE KIRK'S ALARM.* 

A SATIRE. 

Orthodox, orthodox, wha believe i 
Knox, 
Let me sound an alarm to your consi 



Dr Mac.f Dr Mac, you should stretch on a 
rack, 

To strike evil doers wi' terror; 
To join faith and sense upon ony pretence, 

Js heretic, damnable error. 

Town of Ayr, town of Ayr, it was mad, I de- 
clare, 
To meddle w 
Provost John i 
lief, 
And orator Bob f is its ruin. 

D'rymple mild,§ D'rymple mild, tho' vour 
heart's like a child, 
And your life like the new driven snaw, 
Yet that winna save ye, auld Satan must have 

For preaching that three's ane an' twa. 

Rumble John,[] Rumble John, mount th« 

Cry the book is wi' heresy cramm'd ; 
Then lug out the ladle, deal brimstone like 

And roar ev'ry note of the damn'd. 

Simper James, f Simper James, leave the fair 
Killie dames, 
There's a holier chace in your view ; 
I'll lav on your head, that the pack ye '11 soon 
'lead, 
For puppies like you there's but few. 

Singet Sawney,** Siuget Sawney, are ye 
herding the penny, 
Unconscious what evils await ; 
Wi' a jump, yell, and howl, alarm every 

For the foul thief is just at your gato. 

Daddy Auld, f+ Daddy Auld, there's a tod in 
the fauld, 
A tod meikle waur than the clerk ; 
Tho' ye can do little scaith, ye'll be in at the 
death, 
And if ye canna bite ye may bark. 

Davie Bluster, tt Davie Bluster, if for a saint 

The corps is no nice of recruits ; 
Yet to worth let's be just, royal blood ye might 

If the ass was the king of the brutes. 
Jamie Goose, §§ Jamie Goose, ye hae made but 

In hunting the wicked lieutenant ; 
But the Doctor's your mark, fox the L— 
haiy ark ; 
He has cooper'd and cawd a wrang pin ii 



f Dr M< 11 

« Dr D e. 

^ Mr M< J 

tf Mr A d « 

5§ Mr Y- 



** Mr M v. 

^ MrG , Ochiltree 

— -g, Cumnock. 



BURNS, 

Poet Willie,* Poet Willie, gie Ibe Doctor a 
volley, 

Wi' your -liberty 'a chain and your wit ; 
O'er Pegasus' side you ne'er laid a stride, 

Ye but smelt, man, the place where hesh-t. 

Andro Gouk.f Andro Gouk, ye may slander 

the book, 

And the book not the waur let me tell ye ; 

Ye are rich, and look big, but lay by hat and 

wig, 

And ye'll hae a calf's head o' sma' value. 

Barr Steenie,£ Barr Steenie, what mean ye ? 
what mean ye ? 
If ye'll meddle nae mair wi* the matter, 
Ye may ha'e some pretence to havins and 
sense, 
Wi' people wha ken ye nae better. 

Irvine side,§ Irvine side, wi'your turkey-cock 

Of manhood but sma' is your share ; 
Ye've the figure, 'tis true, even your faes will 
allow, 
And your friends they dare grant you nae 

Muirland Jock.H Muirland Jock, when the 
L — d makes a rock 
To crush Common Sense for her sins, 
If ill manners were wit, there's no mortal 



To confound the poor Doctor at ance. 

Holy Will, 1| Holy Will, there was wit i' your 
skull, 
When ye pilfer'd the alms o' the poor ; 
The timiuer is scant, when ye're ta'en for a 

Wha should swing in a rape for an hour. 

Calvin's sons, Calvin's sons, seize your sp'ri- 
tual guns, 
Ammunition ye never can need ; 
Your hearts are the stuff, will be powther 
enough, 
And your skulls are storehouses o' lead. 

Poet Burns, Poet Burns, wi' your priest- 
skelping turns. 
Why desert ye your auld native shire ; 
Your muse is a gipsie, e'en tho' she were 
tipsie, 
She could ca' us nae waur than we are. 



THE TWA HERDS.** 

a' ye pious godly Hocks, 
Weel fed on pastures orthodox, 
Wha now will keep you frae the fox, 
Or worrying tykes, 



* Mr P s, Ayr. f Dr A. M II. 

.% Mr S Y , Barr. 

§ Mr S h, Galston. || Mr S d, 

T| An Elder in Mauchline. 

** This piece was among the first of our 

Author's productions which he submitted to 

the public; and was occasioned by a dispute 

between two clergymen, near Kiliuarn'jek. 



The twa best herds in a' the wast» 
That e'er ga'c gospel horn a blast. 
These five and twenty simmers past, 

O ! dool to teA, 
Ha'e had a bitter black out-cast / 

Atween themsel. 

O, M -y, man, and worthy R 11, 

How could vou raise so vile a bustle, 
Ye'll see how new-light herds will whistle, 

And think it fine ! 
The Lord's cause ne'er got sic a twissle, 

Sin' I ha'e rain'. 

O, Sirs ! whae'er wad ha v e expeckit, 

Your duty ye wad sae negleckit, 

Ye wha were ne'er by laird respeckit, 

To wear the plaid, 
But by the brutes themsels elekit, 

To be their guide. 

What flock wi' M y's flock could rank, 

Sae hale and hearty every shank, 
Nae poison 'd soor Arminian stank, 

He let them taste, 
Frae Calvin's well, aye clear, they drank, 

O sic a feast t 

The Thummart, wil'-cat, brock, and tod, 
Weel kend his voice thro' a' the wood» 
He smelt their ilka hole and road, 

Baith out and in, 
And weel he lik'd to shed their bluid, 

And sell their skin. 

What herd like R 11 tell'd his tale. 

His voice was heard thro' muir and dale, 
He kend the Lord's sheep, ilka tail 

O'er a' the height, 
And saw gin they were sick or hale, 

At the first sight- 

He fine a mangy sheep could scrub, 

Or nobly fling the gospel club, 

And new-light herds could nicely drub, 

Or pay their skin, 
Could shake them o'er the burning dub ; 

Or heave them in. 

Sic twa— ! do 1 live to see't, 
Sic famous twa should disagree!, 
An' names, like villain, hypocrite, 

Ilk ither giein, 
While new-light herds wi' laughin spite, 

Say neither's liein' 1 

A' ye wha tent i ie gospel fauld, 

There's D n, deep, and P — ■ s, shaul, 

But chiefly thou, apostle A— J, 

We trust in thee, 
That thou wilt work them, het and car.ld, 

Till they agree. 

Consider, Sirs, how we're beset, 
There's scarce a new herd that we get. 
But comes frae 'mang that cursed set, 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



D e has been lung our fae, 

M« 11 has wrought us meikle wae, 

And that curs'd rascal ca'd M* e, 

And baith the S s, 

That aft ha'e made us black and blae, 

Wi' vengefu' paws. 

Auld W w lang has hatch'd mischief, 

We thought aye death wad bring relief, 
But he has gotten, to our grief, 

Ane to succeed bin, 
A chield wha'll =oundly buff our beef; 

I meikle dread him. 

And monie a ane that I could tell, 
Wha fain would openly rebel, 
Forby turn-coats amang oursel, 

There S— h for ane, 
I doubt he's but a grey-nick quiil, 

And that ye'll fill'. 

O ! a* ye flocks o'er a' the hills, 

By mosses, meadows, moors, and fells, 

Come join your counsel and your skills, 

To cow the lairds, 
Arjd get the brutes the power themsels, 

To choose their herds. 

Then Orthodoxy yet may prance, 
And learning in a woody dance, 
And that fell cur ca'd Common Sense, 

That bites sae sair, 
Be banish'd o'er the sea to France : 

Let him bark there. 

Then Shaw's and Dalryiuple's eloquence, 

M« Il's close nervous excellence, 

M*Q — e's pathetic man)y sense. 

And guid M« h , 

Wi' S — h, who through the heart can gl&nee, 

Way a' pack aff. 



THE HENPECK'D HUSBAND. 

Curs'd be the man, the poorest wretch in life, 
The crouching vassal to the tyrant wife, 
Who has no will but by her high permission ; 
Who has not sixpence but in her possession ; 
Who must to her his dear friend's secret te'l ; 
Who dreads a curtain lecture worse than hell. 
Were such the wife had fallen to my part, 
I'd break her spirit, or I'd break her heart ; 
I'd charm her with the magic of a switch, 
I'd kiss her maids, and kick the perverse b — h. 



: they're born! 



ELEGY ON' THE YEAR 1788. 

For lords or kings I din 
E'eu let them die— for I 
But, oh, prodigious to reflect, 
A Towmout, Sirs, is gane to wreck! 
O Eighty-eight, in thy sma* space 
What dire events ha'e taken place ! 
Of what enjoyments thou hast reft us ! 
In what a pickle thou has lelt us ! 

The Spanish empire's tint a head, 
An' my auld toothless Bawtie's dead; 
The toolzie's teugh 'tween Pitt an' Fox 
An' our guidwif&'s wee birdy cocks ; 



The taen is game, a bluidy devil, 
But to the hen-birds unco civil ; 
The tither's dour, has nae sic breedin', 
But belter stuff ne'er claw'd a uiiddeu I 

Ye ministers, come mount the pulpit, 
An' cry till ye be hearse and roopit ; 
For Eighty-eight he wish'd you wee'. 
An' gied you a' baith gear an' meal ; 
E'en mony a plack, an' mony a peck, 
Ye ken yoursels, for little feck ! 



Ye bonnie las 



For 



dight your een, 



*or seme o' you nae tint a trien 
In Eighty-eight, ye ken, was ta 
What ye'll ne'er hae t>> gi'e agi 

Observe the very nowt an' sheep, 
How dowff an' dowie now they creep ; 
Nay, even the yirth itsel' does cry, 
For Euibro' wells are grulten dry. 

O Eighty-nine thou's but a bairn, 
An' no owre auld, I hope, to learn ! 
Thou beardless boy, I pray tak' care, 
Thou now has got thy daddy's chair, 
Nae hand-cuff'd, mizzl'd, haff-shackl'd 

gent, 
But, like himsel', a full free agent, 
Be sure ye follow out the plan 
Nae waur than he did, honest man! 
As meikle better as you can. 

January 1, 1789. 



We cam na here to view your warks 

In hopes to be mair wise, 
But only, lest we gang to hell. 

It may be nae surprise : 
But when we tirl'd at your door, 

Your porter dought na hear us ; 
Sae may, should we to hell's yetts come, • 

Your billy Satan sair us ! 



LINES WRITTEN BY BURNS, 

WHILE ON HIS DEATH BBD. TO J— N 
R — K — N, AYRSHIRE, AND FORWARDED 
TO HIM IMMEDIATELY AFTER TI5H 
POET'S DEATH. 

He who of R— k— n sang, lies stiff and dead, 
And a green grassy hillock hides his head ; 
Alas! alas! a devilish change indeed ! 



At a meeting of the Dumfries-shire Volunteers., 
held to commemorate the anniversary of 
Rodney's victory, April 12th, 1782, Burns 
was called upon for a Song, instead of which 
he delivered the following Lines : — 

Instead of a song, boys, I'll give you a toast, 
Here's the memory of those on the twelfth that 
we lost; — 






BURNS POEMS. 



That we lost, did I say, naj, by beav'n ! that 

Fcr their fame it shall last while the world 

goes round. 
The next in succession, I'll give you the King, 
Whoe'er would betray him, on high may he 

And here's the grand fabric, our free Consti- 
tution, 
As built on the base of the great Revolution ; 
And longer with Politics not to be cramm'd, 
Be Anarchy curs'd, and be Tyranny damn'd ; 
And who would to Liberty e'er prove disloyal. 
May his son be a hangman, and he his first 



THE BIKKS OF ABERFELDY. 

Bonny lassie will ye go, will ye go, will ye go, 
Bonny lassie will ye go, to the Birks of Aber- 
feldy ? 

Now summer blinks on flowery braes, 
And o'er the crystal streamlet plays, 
Come let us spend the lightsome days 
In the birks of Aberfeidy. 

Bonnie lassie, &c 

"While o'er their heads the hazels hing, 
The little birdies blythely sing, 
Or lightly flit on wanton wing 
Iu the birks of Aberfeidy. 

Bonnie lassie, &c 

The braes ascend like lofty wa's, 
The foaming stream deep -roaring fa's, 
O'erhung wi' fragrant spreading shafts, 
The birks of Aberfeidy. 

Bonnie lassie, &c. 

The hoary cliff's are crown'd wi' flowers, 
•White o'er the linns the burnie pours, 
And rising, weets wi" misty showers 
The birks of Aberfeidy. 

Bonnie lassie, &c. 

Let fortune's gifts at random flee, 
They ne'er shall draw a wish frae me, 
Supremely blest wi' love and thee 
In the birks of Aberfeidy. 

Bonnie lassie, &c* 



STAY, MY CHARMER, CAN YOU 

LEAVE ME ? 
Tien—" An Gille dabh ciar dhubh. " 

Stay, my charmer, can you leave me ? 

Cruel, cruel, to deceive me I 

Well you know how mcch you grieve me t 

Cruel charmer, can you go ? 

Cruel charmer, can you go ? 



* This was written in the si 
£he Birks of Abergeldy, an old Scottish song, 
from which nothing is borrowed but the 
shoras. 



By my love so ill-reqnited j 

By the faith you fondly plighted ; 

By the pangs of lovers slighted ; 

J)o not, do not leave me so ! 

Do not, do not leave me so '. 



STRATHALLAN'S LAMENT. 

Thickest night o'erhangs my dwelling ? 

Howling tempests o'er me rave ! 
Turbid torrents, wintry swelling, 

Still surround my lonely cave I 



Crystal streamlets gently flowing, 
Busy haunts of base mankind, 

Western breezes, softly blowing, 
Suit not my distracted mind. 



In the cause of right engaged, 
Wrongs injurious to redress, 

Honour's war we strongly waged, 
But the heavens deny'd success. 

Ruin's wheel has driven o'er us, 
£iot a hope that dare attend, 

The wide world is all before ui — 
But a world without a friend ! f 



THE YOUNG HIGHLAND ROVER. 

Tune — «• Morag." 

Loud blaw the frosty breezes, 
The snaws the mountains cover ; 

Since my young Highland rover' 
Far wanders nations over. 
Where'er he go t where'er he stray, 

May heaven be his warden : 
Return him safe to fair Strathspey 

And bonnie Castle-Gordon 1 



The trees now naked groaning, 

Shall soon wi' leaves be hinging, 
The birdies dowie moaning, 

Shall a' be blythely singing, 
And every flowe- be springing. 
Sae I'll rejoice the lee-lang day, 

When by his ruighty warden, 
My youth's return 'd to fair Strathspey, 

And bonnie Castle Gordon. 4. 



B Of 

he young Chevalier, and is 
ipposed to be lying concealed in some cave of 
the Highlands, after the battle of Culloden. 
This song was written before the year 17S8. 

t The young Highland rover is supposed to 
be the young Chevalier, Prince Charles Ed- 
ward. 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



RAVING WINDS AROUND HER 
BLOWING. 



rune-"M«Gri 



r of Ru< 



s Lament. ' 



Raving -winds around her blowing, 
"Yellow leaves the woodlands strewing, 
By a river hoarsely roaring, 
Isabella straj'd deploring. 
«« Farewell, hours that late did measure 
Sunshine days of joy and pleasure ; 
Hail, thou gloomy night of sorrow, 
Cheerless night that knows no morrow. 

*« O'er the past too fondly -wandering, 
On the hopeiess future pondering; 
Chilly grief my life-blood freezes, 
Fell despair my fancy seizes. 
Life, thou soul of every blessing, 
Load to misery most distressing, 
O how gladly I'd resign thee, 
And to dark oblivion join thee I "* 



MUSING ON THE ROARING OCEAN. 
Time—*' Druimion dubh. " 

Musing on the roaring ocean, 
Which divides my love ana me ; 

Wearying heaven in warm devotion, 
For his weal where'er he be. 

Hope and fear's alternate billow 

Yielding late to nature's law, 
W T hisp'ring spirits round my pillo.- 

Talk of him that's far awa. 



Ye whom sorrow never wounded, 
Ye who never shed a tear, 

Care-untroubled, joy-surrounded, 
Gaudy day to you is dear. 

Gentle night, do thou befriend me 
Downy sleep the curtain draw ; 

Spirits kind, again attend me, 
Talk of him that's far awa 1 



She tripped by the banks of Em, 
As light's a bird upon a thorn. 
Blythe, &c. 

Her bonnie face it was as n/eek 

As ony lamb upon a lee ; 
The evening sun was ne'er sae sweet 
\s was the blink o' Phemie's e'e. 
Bis the, &c. 

The Highland hills I've wander 'd wid 
And o'er the Lowlands I hae been ; 

But Phemie was the biythest lass 
That ever trode the dewy green. 
Blythe, &c 



A ROSE-BUD BY MY EARLY 
WALK. 

A Rcse-bud by my early walk, 
Adown a corn-inclosed bawk, 

e gently bent its thorny stalk, 

Ml on a dewy morning. 

Ere twice the shades o' dawn are lie..'-, 

.' its crimson glory spread, 

And druoping ricli ihe dewy head, 

It scents the early morning. 

Within the bush, her covert nest 
A little linnet fondly prest, 
The dew sat chilly on her breast 
Sae early in the morning. 

she soon shall see her tender brood, 
The pride, the pleasure o' the wood, 
Amang the fresh green leaves bedew 'd, 
Awake the early morning. 

So thou, dear bird, young Jeany fair, 

rembiing string or vocal air, 
Shall sweetly pay the tender care 
That tents tby early morning. 

So thou, sweet rose-bud, young and gay, 
Shall beauteous blaze upon the day, 
And bles= ti.e parent's evening ray 
That watched thy early morning.* 



BLYTHE WAS SHE. 

Blythe, blythe, and merry was si 
Blythe was she but and ben ; 

Blythe by the banks of Em, 
And blythe in Glenturit glen. 



WHERE BRAVING ANGRY WINTER'S 
STORMS. 



■Where, braving angry winter's storms, 

The lofty Ochils rise. 
Far in their shade my Peggy's charms 

First blest my wondering eyes. 
^s one who by some savage stream, 

A lonely gem surveys, 
^stonish'd doubly marks its beam, 

With art's most polish'd blaze. 



early e proposition. 



* This song was written during the winter 
of 1787. Miss J. C. daughter of a friend of 
the R*fd, is the heroine. 



BURNS POEMS. 



Blest be the wild, sequester 'd shade, 

And blest the day and hoar, 
Where Peggy's charms I first sur%ey 'o 

YY'hen first I felt their power ! 
The tyrant Death, with grim control, 

May seize my fleeting breath ; 
But tearing Peggy from my soul 

Must be a stronger death. 



TIBBIE, I HAE SEEN THE DAY. 
Tune — «* Invercauld's ReeL " 

O Tibbie, I hae seen the day 
Ye would na been sae shy ; 

For laik o' gear ye lightly me, 
But troth I care na by. 

Yestreen I met you on the moor, 
Ye spak na, but gaed by like stoure ; 
Ye geek at me because I'm poor, 
But fient a hair care I. 
O Tibbie, I hae, &c. 

I doubt na lass, tut ye may think, 
Because ye hae the name o' clink, 
That ye can please me at a wink, 
Whene'er ye like to <ry. 
O Tibbie, I hae, &c. 

But sorrow tak him that's Bae mean, 
Altho' his pouch o' coin were clean, 
Wha follows ony saucy quean 
That looks sae proud and high, 
O Tibbie, I hae, &c 

Altho* a lad were e'er sae smart, 

If that he want the yellow dirt, 

Ye'll cast your head anither airt, 

And answer him fu' dry. 

O Tibbie, I hae, &c. 

But if he hae the name o' gear, 

Ye'll fasten to him like a hrier, 

Tho' hardly he, for sense or lear, 

Be better than the kye. 

O Tibbie, I hae", &c 

But, Tibbie, lass, tak my advice, 
Your daddie's gear maks )ou sae nice : 
The deil a ane wad spier your price, 
Were ye as poor as L 
O Tibbie, I hae, ice. 

There lives a lass in yonder park, 

I would na gie her under sark, 

For thee wi' a thy thousand mark ; 

Ye need na look sae high. 

O Tibbie, I hae, &c. 



Clarinda, mistress of my soul, 
The measur'd time is run ! 

The wretch beneath the dreary pole, 
So marks his latest sua. 



Depriv'd of thee, his life and light, 
The sun of all his joy. 

We part, — but by these precious drops, 

That fill thy lovely eyes I 
No other light shall guide my steps, 

Till thy bright beams arise. 

She, the fair sun of all her sex, 

Has blest my glorious day : 
And shall a glimmering planet fix 

My worship to its raj ? 



THE DAY RETURNS, MY BOSOM' 

BURNS. 

Tune — «• Seventh of November. " 

The day returns, my bosom burns, 

The blissful day we twa did meet, 
Tho' winter wild in tempest toil'd, 

Ne'er summer sun was half sae sweet ; 
Than a' the pride that loads the tide, 

And crosses o'er the sultry line ; 
Than kingly robes, than crowns and globes, 

Heaven gave me more, it made thee mine. 

While day and night can bring delight, 

Or nature ought of pleasure give ! 
While joys above my mind can move, 

For thee, and thee alone, I live ! 
When that grim foe of life below, 

Comes in between to make us part ; 
The iron hand that breaks our band, 

It breaks my bliss — it breaks mv heart. 



THE LAZY MIST. 

The lazy mist hangs from the brow cf the 

hill, 
Concealing the course of the dark winding 

rill; 
How languid the scenes, late so sprightly, ap 



And all the gay foppery cf summer is flown : 
Apart let me wander, apart let me muse, 
How quick time is flying, how keen fate pur- 



How long I hai 



liv'd— but how much liv'd 



What ties cruel Fate in my bosom has torn. 
How foolish, or worse, 'till our summit is 

And downward, how weaken'd, how darken'd, 

how pain'd I 
This life's not worth having with all it can 

give, 
For something beyond it poor man sure rnu*t 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRAE Y. 



O, WERE I ON PARNASSUS HILL. 
Tune — «« My love is lost to me. " 

were I on Parnassus hill I 
Or had of Helicon my till ; 
That I might catch poetic skill, 

To sing how dear I love thee. 
But Jsith maun he iny muse's well," 
My muse maun be thy bonnie sel' ; 
On Corsiucoa I'll glower and spell, 

And write uow dear I love thee. 

Then come, sweet muse, inspire my lay ! 
For a' the lee-long summer's day, 

1 couldna sing, I cou'.dna say, 
How much, how dear, I love thee, 

I see thee dancing o'er the green, 
Thy waist sae jimp, thy limbs sae clean, 
Thy tempting lips, thy rogush e'en— 
By heaven and earth I love thee I 



Now in your wintry beds, ye flowers, 

Again ye'll flourish fresh and fair ; 
Ye birdies dumb, in withering bowers, 

Again je'll charm the vocal air. 
But here, alas ! for me nae mair 

Shall birdie charm, or floweret smile j 
Fareweel the bonnie banks of Ayr, 

Fareweel, fareweel! 6weet Baliochmyle J 



WILLIE BREW'D A PECK ( 
MAUT. 

O Willie brew'd a peck o* maut, 
And Rob and Allan cam to pree ; 

Three blyther hearts, that lee iang night, 
*'e wad na find in Christendie. 



Tho* I were doom'd to wander on, 
Beyond the sea, beyond the sun, 
*TU1 my last, weary sand was run ; 
'Till then — and then I love thee. 



I LOYE MY JEAN. 

Tune — '« MissAdmiral Gordon's Strathspey. ' 

Of a* the airts the wind can blaw, 
. I dearly like the west, 
For there the bonnie lassie lives, 

The lassie Ilo'ebest: 
There wild woods grow, and rivers row, 

Aud monie a hill between; 
But day and night my fancy's flight 

Is ever wi' my Jean. 

I see her in the dewy flowers, 

I see her sweet and fair : 
I hear her in the tunefu' birds, 

I hear her charm the air : 
There's not a bonnie flower that springs 

By fountain, shaw, or green, 
There's not a bonnie bird that sings, 

Bat minds me o' my Jean, 



THE BRAES O' BALLOCHMYLE. 

The Catrine woods were yellow seen, 
The flowers decayed on Catrine lee,* 

Nae lav 'rock sang on hillock green, 
But nature sicken'd on the e'e. 

Thro' faded groves Maria sang, 

Hersel' in ceauty's bloom the while, 



«' We are na fou, we're nae that fon, 
But just a drappie in our e'e ; 

The cock may craw, the day may daw, 
And aye we'll taste the barley bree." 

Here are we met, three merry boys, 
Three merry b-ys I trow are we; 

And mony a night we've merry been, 

And mony mair we hope to be ! 

\\ e are na fou, &c. 

It is the moon, I ken ber horn, 

at's blinking in the lift sae high } 
She shines sae bright to wyle us hame, 
' iiut by my troth she'll wait a wee! 
We are nae fou, &c 

first shall rise to gang awa, 
cuckold, cow ard loun is he 1 
I Wha first beside his chair shall fa* t 
He is the king amang us three ! 
We are nae fou, &c f 



THE BLUE-EYED LASSIE. 

I gaed a waefu' gate yestreen, 

A gate, 1 fear, I '11 dearly rue : 
I gat my death frae twa sweet e'en, 

'Twa lovely e'en o' bonnie blue. 
'Twas not her golden ringlets bright. 

Her lips like roses wat wi* dew. 
Her heaving bosom, lily-white — 

It was her e'en sae bonnie blue. 

She talk'd, she smiled, my heart she wyl'd, 
She charmed my soul 1 wist na how ; 

And aye the stound, the deadly wound, 
Cam frae her e'en sae bonnie bine. 



• Catrine, in Ayrshire, the seat of Dagald 
Stewart, Esq. Professor of Moral Philosophy 
In the University of Edinburgh. Baliochmyle, 
formerly the seat of Sir John Whitefoord, now 
<?f Alexander, Esq. (1800.) 



•f Willie, who "brew'd a peck o' maut," 
was Mr William Nicol ; and Rob and Allan, 
were our poet, and his friend, Allan Master- 
on. These three honest fellows — all men of 
incommon talents, are now under the terf 
-'1799.) 



BURNS,— POEMS. 



But spare to speak, and spare to speed ; 

She'll aiblins listen to ray vow : 
Should she refuse, I'll lay my dead 

To her twa e'en sae bonny blue. * 



THE BANKS OP NITH. 
Tune— "Robie Donna Gorach." 

The Thames flows proudly to the sea, 

"Where royal cities stand ; 
But sweeter flows the Nith to me, 

Where Cummins ance had high command ; 
When shall I see that honour'd land, 

That winding stream I love so dear 1 
Must wayward fortune's adverse hand 

For ever, ever keep me here. 

How lovely, Nith, thy fruitful vales, 

Where spreading hawthorns gaily bloom ; 
How sweetly winu thy sloping dales 

Where lambkins wanton thro' the broom ! 
Tho' wandering, now, must be my doom, 

Far from thy bonnie banks and braes, 
May there my latest hours consume, 

Amang the friends of early days I 



JOHN ANDERSON MY JO. 

John Anderson, my jo, John, 

When we were first acquent, 
Your locks were like the raven, 

Your bonnie brow was brent ; 
But now your brow is beld, John, 

Your locks are like the snaw ; 
But blessings on your frosty pow, 

John Anderson my jo. 

John Anderson, my jo, John, 

We clamb the hill thegither ; 
' And mony a cantv day, John, 

We've'had wi' ane anitber. 
t Now we maun totter down, John, 

But hand in hand we'll go: 
I And sleep thegither at the foot, 

John Anderson my jo. t 



* The heroine of this song was Miss J. of 
[ Lochmaben. This lady, now Mrs R. after 
residing some time in Liverpool, is settled 
with her husband in New York, North Amer- 

+ In the 6rst volume of a collection entitled, 
Poetry, Original and Selected, printed by 
Brash and Reid of Glasgow, this song is given 
as follows : 

JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO, IMPROVED. 

BY ROBERT BURNS. 

John Anderson, my jo, John, I wonder what 
you mean, 

To rise so soon in the morning, and sit up so 
late at e'en, 

Ye'll blear out a' your e'en, John, and why 
should you do so, 

Gang sooner to your bed at e'en, John Ander- 
son, my jo. 



John Anderson, my jo, John, when nature 
first began 

To try her canny hand, John, her master- 
work was man : 

And you amang them a', John, sae trig frae 



John Anderson, my jo, John, ye were my first 
And ye na think it strange, John, tho' I ca' 

Tho* some folk say ye're auld, John, I never 

think ye so, 
But I think ye're aye the same to me, John 

Anderson, my jo. 

John Anderson, my jo, John, we've seen our 

bairns' baini6, 
And yet my dear John Anderson, I'm happy 

And sae are ye in mine, John— I'm sure ye'll 

ne'er say no, 
Tho' the days are gane, that we have seen, 

John Anderson, my jo. 

John Anderson, my jo, Jobs, what pleasure 

does it gie 
To see sae mony sprouts, John, spring up 

'tween you and m?, 
And ilka lad and lass, John, in our footsteps 

ogo, 



John Anderson, my jo, John, when we were 

first acquent, 
Your locks were like the raven, your bonnie 

brow was brent, 
But now your head's turned bald, John, your 

locks are like the snaw, 
Yet blessings on your frosty pow, John An- 
' rson, my jo. 

John Anderson, my jo, John, frae year to year 

And soon that year maun come John, will 

bring us to our last : 
But let nac that affright us, John, our hearts 



rfoe, 



e lived, John An- 



John Anderson, my jo, John, we clamb the 

hill thegither, 
And mony a canty day, John, we've had wi' 

t we maun totter down, John, but hand 
in hand we'll go, 
And we'll sleep thegither at the foot, John 
Anderson, my jo. 

The stanza with which this song, inserted 
by Messrs Brash and Reid, begins, is the 
chorus of the old song under this title ; and 
though perfectly suitable to that wicked but 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



I'm thinking wi' sic a braw fellow, 
In poortith 1 might mak a fen : 

What care I in riches to wallow, 
If I inaunna marry Tarn Glen. 

There's Lowrie the laird o' Durneller, 
" Gude day to you, brute," he coiees b 

He brags and he blaws o' his siller, 

But when will he dance like Tam Glen. 

My minnie does constantly deave me, 
And bids me beware o' young men ; 

They flatter, she says, to deceive me, 
But wha can think sae o' Tam Glen ? 

My daddie savs, gin I'll forsake him, 
He'll gie me gude huuder marks ten : 

But, if it's ordain'd I maun tak him, 
O wha will I get like Tam Glen ? 

Yestreen at the Valentine's dealing, 
My heart to my mou gied a sten ; 

For "thrice I drew aue without failing, 
And thrice it was written Tam Glen. 

The last Hallowe'en I was waukiu 
My droukit sark-sleeve, as ye ken 

His likeness cam up the house staukin, 
And the very grey breeks o' Tam Glen ! 

Come counsel, dear tittie, don't tarry ; 

l'Jl gie you my bonnie black hen, 
Gin ye will advise me to marry 

The lad I lo'e dearly, Tam Glen. 



f MY TOCHER'S THE JEWEL. 

O meikle thinks my lure o* my beauty, 
And meikle thinks my lave o' my kin ; 

But little thinks my luve I ken brawlie, 
My tocher's the jewel has charms for him. 

It's a' for the appie he'il nourish the tree ; 
It's a' for the hinney he'll cherish the bee, 



witty ballad, it has no accordance with the 
strain of delicate and tender sentiment of this 
improved song. In regard to the live other 
additional stanzas, though they are in the 
spirit of the two stanzas that are unquestion- 
ably our bard's, yet every reader of discern- 
ment will see they are by an inferior hand ; 
and the real author of them ought neither to 
have given them, nor suffered them to be given, 
to the world, as the production of Burns. If 
there were no other mark of their spurious ori- 
gin, the latter half of the third line in the 
seventh stanza, our hearts were ne'er our foe, 
would be proof sufficient. Many are the in- 
stances in which our bard has adopted defec- 
tive rhymes, but a single instance cannot be 
produced, in which, to preserve the rhyme, he 
has given a feeble thought, in false grammar. 
These additional stanzas are not however 
without merit, and they may serve to prolong 
the pleasure which every person of taste must 
feel, from listenirg to a most happy union of 
beautiful music with moral sentiments that 
are singularly interesting. 



But an' ye be crafty, I am c 

Sae ye wi' anither your fortune maun try, 
i'e're like to the timmer o' yon rotten wood. 

Ye 're like to the bark o' yon rotten tree, 
Ye'il slip frae me like a kuotless thread, 

And ye'il crack your credit wi' mae nor me. 



THEN GUIDWIFE COUNT THE 
LA WIN. 

Gane is the day and mirk's the night, 
But we'll ne'er stray for faute o' light, 
For ale and brandy's stars and moon, 
And bluid red wine's the risin sun. 

Then guidwife count the lawin, the lawin, the 



There's wealth an' ease for gentlemen, 
And semple-folk maun fecht and fen j 
But here we're a' in ae accord, 
For ilka man that's drunk's a lord. 
Then guidwife count, &c 

My coggie is a haly pool. 
That heals the wounds o' care and dool ; 
And pleasure is a wanton trout, 
An' ye drink it a' ye'il find him out. 
Then guidwife count, ice. 



WHAT CAN A YOUNG LASSIE DO 
WI' AN AULD MAN. 

What can a young lassie, what shall a young 

What can a young lassie do wi' an auld 

Bad luck on the pennie that tempted my 

To sell her poor Jenny for siller an Ian' J 
Bad luck on the pennie, &c. 

He's always compleening frae morning to 

He hosts an he hirples the weary day lang, 
He's doy'lt and he's doxin, his bluid it is 
frozen, 
O* dreary's the night wi' a crazy anld man \ 

He hums and he hankers, he frets and be 
cankers ; 
.lever can please him do a' that I can ; 
He's peevish and jealous of a' the young fel- 
lows, 
O, dool on the day, I met wi' an' auld man '. 

Mr auld auntie Katie upon me takes pity, 

I'll do my endeavour to follow her plan ; 
I'll cross him, and wrack him, until I heart- 
break him, 
And then his auld brass will buy me a new 
pan. 



BURNS. -POEMS. 



THE BONNIE WEE THING. 

Bonnie wee thing, cannie wee thing, 
LoTely wee thing, was thou mine; 

I wad wear thee in my bosom, 
Lest my jewel I should tine. 

Wistfully I look and languish, 
In that bonnie face of thine ; 

And my heart it stounds wi' anguish. 
Lest my wee thing be na mine. 

Wit, and grace, and love, and beauty, 

In ae constellation shine ; 
To adore thee is my duty, 

Goddess o' this soul o' mine I 
Bonnie wee, .Vc. 



O, FOR ANE AND TWENTY TAM. 
Tune— " The Moudiwort." 

An' O, for ane and twenty, Tam ! 

An' hey, sweet ane and twenty, Tam ! 
I'll learn my kin a rattlin sang, 

An* I saw ane and twenty, Tam. 

They snool me sair, and baud me down. 
And gar me look like bluntie, Tam ; 

But three short years will soon wheel roun', 
And then comes ane and twenty, Tam. 
An* O, for aue, &c 

A gleib o' Ian', a claut o' gear, 
Was left me by my auntie, Tam ; 

At kith or kin I need na spier, 
An' I saw ane and twenty, Tam. 
An' O, for ane, &c. 

They'll hae me wed a wealthy coof, 
Tho' I mysel hae plenty, Tam ; 

Bnt hear'st thou laddie, there's my loof, 
I'm thine at ane and twenty, Tam 1 
An' O for ane, &c 



BESS AND HER SPINNING WHEEL. 

O Leeze me on my spinning wheel, 
O leeze me on my rock and reel ; 
Frae tap to tae that deeds me bien, 
And haps me fiel and warm at e'en ! 
I'll set me down and sing and spin, 
While laigh descends the simmer sun, 
Blest wi' content, and milk and meal — 
O leeze me on my spinning wheeL 

On ilka hand the burnies trot, 

And meet below thy theekit cot ; 

The scented birk and hawthorn white, 

Across the pool their arms unite, 

Alike to screen the birdie's nest, 

And little fishes' caller rest : 

The sun blinks kindly in the biel', 

Where, blythe I turn my spinning wheel. 

On lofty aiks the cushats wail, 
And echo cons the doolfu' tale: 
The lintwhites in the hazel braes, 
Delighted, rival ither'6 lays : 



The craik amang the claver hay, 
The paitrick whirrin o'er the ley. 
The swallow jinking round my sbiel, 
Amuse me at my spinning wheel. 

Wi* sma' to sell, and leas Jo buy, 
Aboon distress, below envy, 
wha wad leave this humble state, 
For a' the pride of a' the great I 
Amid their flairiug, idle toys, 
Amid their cumbrous, dinsome joys, 
Can they the peace and pleasure feel, 
Of Bessy at her spinning wheel. 



COUNTRY LASSIE. 

In simmer when the hay was mawn. 

And corn waved green in ilka field, 
While claver blooms while o'er the lea, 

And roses blaw in ilka bield ; 
Blythe Bessie in the milking shiel, 

Says, I'll be wed come o't what will; 
Out spake a dame in wrinkled eild, 

O ' gude advisement conies nae ill. 



Its ye hae wooers mony a ane, 

And, lassie, ye're but young, ye ken ; 
Then wait a wee, and cannie wale, 

A roulhie butt, a routhie ben : 
There's Johnie o' the Buskie-glen, 

Fu' is his barn, fu' is his byre ; 
Tak this frae me, my bonnie hen, 

It's plenty beets the luver's fire. 

For Johnnie o' the Buskie-glen, 

eel his craps and kye, 



But blvthe's the blink 

And'weel I 
Ae blink o' him I wad 

For Buskie-glen and 



t he lo'e 



is gear. 



O thoughtless lassie, life's a faught, 

The canniest gate, the strife is sair ; 
But aye fa* han't is fechtin" best, 

A hungry care's an unco care ; 
But some will spend, and some will spare, 

And wilfu' folk maun hae their will ; 
Syne as ye brew, my maiden fair, 

Keep mind that ye maun drink the yill. 

gear will buy me rigs o' land. 

And gear will buy me sheep and kye ; 
But the tender heart o' leesome luve, 

The gowd and siller canna buy i 
We may be poor, Robie and I, 

Light is the burden luve lays on ; 
Content and love brings peace and joy, 

What mair hae queens upon a throne f 



FAIR ELIZA. 

A GAELIC AIR. 

Turn again, thou fair Eliza, 
Ae kind blink before we part, 
| Kew on thy despairing lover ! 

Canst thou break his faithfu' heart ! 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



Turn again, thou fair Eliza ; 

If to love thy heart denies, 
For pity bide the cruel sentence 

Under friendship's kind disguise ! 

Thee, dear maid, hae I offended ? 

The offence is loving thee : 
Canst thou wreck his peace for ever, 

Wha for thine wad gladly die! 
While the life beats in my bosom. 

Thou shalt mis in ilka throe: 
Turn again, thou lovely maiden* 

Ae sweet smile on me bestow. 

Not the bee upon the blossom, 

In [he pride o' siuny noon ; 
Not the little sporting fairy, 

All beneath the simmer moon ; 
Not the poet in the moment 

Fancy lightens on his e'e, 
Eens the pleasure, feels the rapfura 

That thy presence gies to me. 



THE POSIE. 

O Luv« will venture in, where it daur na well 

O luve will venture in where wisdom ance has 

But I wLU down yon river rove, amang the 
wood sae green. 
And a' to pu' a posie to my ain dear May. 

The primrose I will pu', the firstling o' the 

And I will pa' the pink, the emblem o' my 

For she's the pink o' womankind, and b!ooms 
without a peer: 
Aud a' to be a posie to my ain dear May, 

I'll pu' the buddiug rose when Phcebiis peeps 

For it's like a baumy kiss o' her sweet bonnie 

The hyacinth's for constancy wi' its unchang- 
ing blue : 
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. 

The lily it is pure, and therlily it is fair, 
Aud in her lovely bosom I'll place the lily 

The daisy's tor simplicity and unaffected air: 
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. 

viilpu', v 



The hawthor 

grey, 
Where, lfke an aged man, il 

But the songster's nest wi 

And a' to be a posie to my 



its locks o' siller 
stands at break 
hin the bush I 
lin dear May. 
rhe woodbine I will pu' when thee'ening star 
And the diainond-draps o' dew shall be her 
The violet's for modesty which weel she fa 
Aud a' to be a posie to my aiu dear May. 



I'll tie the pos : e round wi' the silkeu band c 

luve, 
And I'll place it in her breast, and I'll svveb 

by a' above, 
That to ray latest draught o' life the band sha' 

ne'er remove, 
And this will be a posie to my ain dear Mai 



THE BANKS 0' DOON. 

Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon, 

How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair ; 
How can ye chant, ye little birds, 

And I sae weary fu' o' care ! 
Thou'll break my heart thou warbling bird. 

That wantons thro' the flowering thorn i 
Tbou minds me o' departed joys, 

Departed never to return. 

Oft hae I roved by bonnie Doon, 

To see the rose and woodbine twice ; 
And iika bird sang o' its luve, 

And, fondly, sae did I o' mine. 
Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose, 

Fu' sweet upon its thorny tree ; 
And my fause lover stoie my rose, 

But ah I he left the thorn wi' me. 



SIC A WIFE AS WILLIE HAD. 

Willie W r astle dwall on Tweed, 
The spot they ca'd it Liukumdoddie ; 

Wilhe was a wabster gude, 

Cou'd s;own a ciue wi' ony bodie ; 

He had a wife was dour ami din, 
O Tinkler Maagie was her mnuer; 



She has an e'e, she has but ane, 
The cat has iwa the very colour; 

Five rusty teeth, forbye a stump, 

A clapper tongue wad deave a miller} 

A whiskin beard about her inou, 

Her nose and chiu they threaten ither ; 
Sic a wife, &c 

She's bow-hough'd, she's hein shinn'd, 
Ae liuiuin leg a hand-breed shorter : 

She's twisted right, she's twisted left, 
To balance fair in ilka quarter ; 

She has a hump upon her breast, 
The twin o' that upon her shouther ; 
Sio a wife, &c 

Auld baudrins by the ingle sits, 

And wi' her loof her face a-washin ; 

But Willie's wife is nae sap trig. 

She digflts her gruuzie wi' a husbioa t 

Her wahe nieves like midden creels. 
Her face wad fyle the Logan water | 



BURNS POEMS. 



GLOOMY DECEMBER. 



nair I hail thee, thou gloomy December, 
j mair I hail thee, wi' sorrow and care ; 
le remember, 



Ance 

I Sad was the parting thou makes i 
[ Parting wi' Nancy, Oh ! ne'er to meet mair. 
Fond lovers parting is sweet painful pleasure, 
Hope beaming mild on the soft parting hour ; 
But the dire feeling, O farewell for ever, 
Is anguish unmingled and agony pure. 

Wild as the winter now tearing the forest, 
'Till the last leaf o' the summer is flown, 

Such is the tempest has shaken my bosom, 
Since my last hope and last comfort is gone; 

Still as I hail thee, thou gloomy December, 
Still shall I hail thee wi' sorrow and care ; 

For sad was the parting thou makes me re- 

Partiug wi' Nancy, Oh, ne'er to meet mair. 



EVAN BANKS* 

Slow spreads the gloom my soul desires, 
The sun from India's shore retires ; 
To Evan banks, with temp'rate ray, 
Home of my youth, it leads the day. 
Oh ! banks to me for ever dear ! 
Oh ! siream whose murmurs still I hear 1 
Ail, all my hopes of bliss reside, 
"Where Evan mingles wkh the Clyde. 

And she, in simple beauty dress'd, 
Whose image lives within my breast ; 
Who trembling heard my piercing sigh, 
And long pursued me with bar eye 1 
Does she, with heart unchanged as mine, 
Oft in the vocal bowers recline ? 
Or where yon grot o'erhangs the tide, 
Muse while the Evan seeks the Clvde. 

Ye lofty banks that Evan bound ! 
Ye lavish woods that wave around, 
And o'er the stream your shadows throw, 
Which sweetly winds so far below ; 
What secret charm to mem'ry brings, 
A!l that on Evan's border springs ? 

t banks ! ye bloom by Mary's side ; 



Bless'd si 



shev 



s thee haste to Clyde. 



Can all the wealth of India's co-\st 

Atone for years in absence lost ! 

Return, \e moments of delight, 

"With richer treasures bless my sight! 

Swift from this desert let me part, 

And fly to meet a kindred heart ! 

Nor more may aught my steps divide 

From that dear stream which flows to Clyde. 



WILT THOU BE MY DEARIE. 

Wilt thou be my dearie ; 

When sorrow wrings thy gentle heart, 
O wilt thou let me cheer thee ; 

By the treasure of my soul, 
And that's the love I bear thee : 

I swear and vow, that only thou 



j Shalt ever be my dearie. 

Only thou, I swear aud vow, 
I Shall ever be my dearie. 

; Lassie, say thou lo'es me : 
| Or, if thou wilt tia be my ain, 
Sae na thou'lt refuse mes 

If it winna, canna be, 
Thou, for thine, may choose me 

Let me, lassie, quickly die, 
Trusting that thou lo'es me, 
Lassie, let me quickly die, 
Trusting that thou lo'es me. 



SHE'S FAIR AND FAUSE. 

ilie's fair and fanse that causes my smart, 

I lo'ed her meikle and lang ; 
ihe's broken her vow, she's broken my he;.rt. 

And I may e'en gae hang. 
l coof cam in with routh o' gear, 
And I hae tint my dearest dear, 
Jut woman is but warld's gear, 

Sae let the bonnie lass gang. 

Whae'er ye be that woman leve, 

To this be never blind, 
Nae ferlie 'lis tho' fickle she prove, 

A woman has't by kind : 
O woman, lovely woman, fair l 
An angel form's faun to thj share, 
'Twad beeu o'er meikle to gieu thee mair, 

I mean an angel mind. 



AFTON WATER. 
Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green 

Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy 

praise ; 
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream, 
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her 

dream. 

Thou stock iove whose echo resounds thro' the 

glen. 
Ye wslJ whistling blackbirds in yon thorny 

Thou green-crested lapwing thy screaming 
forbear, 
arge you disturb not my slumbering fair. 

How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighbouring 
hills, 
marked with courses of clear winding 



How pleasant thy banks and green valley be- 
Where wild in the woodlands the primroses 

There oft as mild evening weeps over tne lea» 
sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and 



Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it 
giides, 
. And winds by the cot where my Mr.ry resides t 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



r^^r^rr-ir,* issrir: 



Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green 
Flow geuTly, sweet river, the theme of my 



My Mark's "asleep by thy murmuring stream. 
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her 



BONNIE BELL. 

The smiling spring comes in rejoicing, 

And surly Winter grimly flies : 
Now crystal clear are the falling waters ; 

And bonnie blue are the sunny skies ; 
Fresh o'er the mountains breaks forth tne 

The ev'nin^ilds the ocean's swell ; 
All creatures Joy in the sun's returning, 
And I rejoice in my bonme Bell. 

The flowery Spring leads sunny Summer, 

And yellow Autumn presses «»«?» 
Then in his turn comes gloomy >\ inter, 

•Till smiling Spring again appear. 
Thus seasons dancing, life advancing, 

Old Time and Nature their changes tell, 
But never ranging, still unchanging 

I adore my bonnie Bell. 



THE GALLANT WEAVER. 

Where Cart rins rowin to the sea, 
Bv mony a flow'r and spreading tree, 
There lives a lad, the lad for me, 
He is a gallant weaver. 

Oh I had wooers aught or nine, 
They gied me rings and ribbons hne. 
And 1 was fear'd my heart would tine, 
And I gied it to the weaver. 

My daddie sign'd my tocher -band 
To "ie the lad that has the land, 
But°to my heart I'll add my hand, 
And give it to the weaver. 

While birds rejoice in leafy bowers ; 
While bees delight in opening flowers , 
While corn grows green in simmer showers, 
I'll love my gallant weaver.* 



LOUIS, WHAT RECK I BY THEE. 

Louis, what reck I by thee, 

Or Geordie on his ocean ; 
Dyvour beggar louns to me, 

I rei<*n in Jeanie's bosom, 

Let her crown my love her law, 
And in her breast enthrone me : 



* la some editions sailor is substituted for 



FOR THE SAKE OF SOMEBODY 

My heart is sair, I dare na tell, 

My heart is sair for somebody t 
I could wake a winter night 
For the sake of somebody. 
Oh-hon ! for somebody ! 
Oh-hey ! for somebody ! 
I could range the world around, 
For the sake of somebody. 

Ye powers that smile on virtuous love, 

O sweetly smile on somebody 1 
Frae ilka danger keep him free, 
And send me safe my somebody. 
Oh-hon ! for somebody ! 
Oh-hey ! for somebody 1 
I wad do— what wad I not ? 
For the sake of somebody I 



THE LOVELY LASS OF INVERNESS. 

The lovely lass o' Inverness, 

Nae joy nor pleasure can she see ; 
For e'en and morn she cries, alas ! 

And ave the saut tear blins her e e : 
Drumossie moor, Drumossie day, 

A waefu' day it was to me ; 
For there I lost my father dear, 

My father dear and brethren three. 

Their windin" sheet the bloody clRy, 
Their graves are growing green to see ; 

And by them lies the dearest lad 
That ever bless 'd a woman s e e ! 

Vow wae to thee, thou cruel lord, 
A bluidy man I trow thou be ; 
or monie a heart thou hast made sair, 
That ne'er did wrong to thine or thee. 



A MOTHER'S LAMENT FOR TIIE 
DEATH OF HER SON. 
Tutie—" Finlayston House. " 

Fate gave the word, the arrow sped, 

And pierced my darling s heart : 
And with him all the joys are fled 

Life c.a.n to me impart. 
By cruel hands the sapling drops, 

In dust dishonour'd laid : 
So fell the pride of all my hopes, 

My tge's future shade. 

Th2 mother linnet in the brake, 

Be wails her ravished young ; 
So I for my lost darling's sake, 

Lament the live-day long. 
Death, oft I've fear'd thy fatal blow, 

Now fond I bare my breast, 
J O "do thou kindly lay me low 

With him I love at rest J 



BURNS.— POEMS. 



O MAY, THY MORN. 

>D May, thy morn was ne'er sae sweet, 
A* the mirk night o' December ; 

For sparkling was the rosy wine, 
And private was the chamber : 

Ind dear was she I darena name, 
ilut 1 will aye remember. 
And dear, ic. 

And here's to them, that like oursel, 

Can push aboui the jorum ; 
And here's to them that wish us weel, 

May a' that's gude watch o'er them ; 
And here's to them, we darena lei), 

The dearest o' the quorum, 
And here's to, &c. 



-) what ye wha's in yon town, 

Ye see the e'ening sun upon, 
The fairest dame's in yon town, 

That e'ening sun is shining on. 

Wow haply down yon gay green shaw, 
She wanders by you spreading tree ; 

Hew blest ye flow'rs that round her blaw, 
Ye catch the glances o' her e'e. 

How blest ye birds that roand her sing, 
And welcome iu the blooming year, 

And doubly welcome be the spring, 
The season to uiy Lucy dear. 

The sun blinks blythe on yon town. 
And on yon bonuie braes of Ayr ; 

But my delight in yon town, 
And dearest bliss is Lucy fair. 

Without my love, not a' the charms 
O' paradise could yield me joy j 

lint gie me Lucy iu my arms. 
And welcome Lapland's dreary sky. 

jjy cave wad be a lover's bower, 
Tho' raging winter rent the air ; 

*nd she a lovely little flower, 
That I wad tent and shelter there. 

) sweet is she in yon town, 
You sinkin son's gane down upon ; 
A fairer lhan's iu yon town, 
His setting beam ne'er shone upon. 

If angry fate has sworn my foe, 

And suffering I am doom 'd to bear ; 

I careless quit aught ehe below, 
Rut spare me, spare me, Lucy dear. 

For while life's dearest blood is warm, 
Ae thought frae her shall ne'er depart. 

And she — as fairest is her form, 
She has the truest kindest heart.* 



, * The heroine of this song, Mrs O. (for 
if Miss L. J.) died lately in Lisbon. This 
aost accomplished and most lovely woman, 
was worthy of this beautiful strain of sensibil- 



A RED. RED ROSE. 

O my love's like a red, red rose, 
That's newly sprung in June, 

my love's like the melody 
That's sweetly play'd in tun^. 

As fair art thou, my bonny lass, 

So deep in 'ove am I ; 
And 1 will love thee still my dear, 

'Till a' the seas gang dry. 

Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear, 
And the rocks melt wi' the sun ; 

1 will love thee still, my dear. 
While the sands o' life shall run. 

And fare thee weel, my only love, 
And fare thee weel a while ! 

And I will come again my love, 
Tho' it were ten thousand mile. 



A VISION. 

As I stood by von roofless tower, 

Where the wa'-llower scents the dewv a 

Where the howlet mourns in her ivy Lowei 
And tells the midnight moon her care. 

The winds were laid, the air was still, 
The stars thev shot along the sky ; 

The fox was howling on the hill, 
And the distant echoing glens reply. 



n adown its hazelly path, 



s streaming fo :h 



The cauld blue no 

Her lights, wi' 1 
Athort the lift they starfand shift, ' 

Like fortune's favours, tint as win. 

By heedless chance I turn'd mine eyes, ; 

And by the moon-beam, shook, to see 
A stern and stalwart ghaist arise, 

Attir'd as minstrels wont to be. 

Had I a statue been o' stane, 
His darin look had daunted me ; 

And on his bonnet grav'd was plain, 
The sacred posie — Liberty 1 



ity, which will convey some impression of her 
attractions to other generations. The song is 
written in the character of her husband, as tha 
reader will have observed by our bard's letter 
to Mr Syme inclosing this song. 

t Variation. To join yon river on tha 

Strath. 

{Variation. 

Now looking over firth and fau'J, 
Her horn the pale-faced Cynthia rear d ; 
When, lo, in form of minstrel auid, 
A stern and stalwart ghaist appear'd. 

Q 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



He sang wl' joy his former day, 
He weeping wail'd his latter ti 

Eat what he said it was nae play 
I winna venture 't in my rhyni< 



COPY OF A POETICAL ADDRESS 



MR WILLIAM TYTLER, 

WITH THE PRESENT OF THE BAKO's 
PICTURE. 

Revered defender of beauteous Stuart, 
Of Stuart a name once respected, 

A name, which to love was the mark of ei tru 
heart, 
But now 'lis despised and neglected : 

Tbo' something like moisture conglobes in nr 

Let no one misdeem me disloyal ; 
A poor friendless wand'rer may v/ell claim a 
sigh, 
Still mere, if that wand'rer were royal. 

My fathers that name have rever'd on 
throne ; 
My fathers have fallen to right it ; 
Those fathers would spurn their degeuer; 

That name should he scoffingly slight it. 



Their title's avow'd by the country. 
But why of that epocha make such a fuss, 



* This poem, an imperfeet copy of which 
was printed in Johnson's Museum, is here 
given from the poet's MS. with his last cor- 
rections. The scenery so finely described is 
takeu from nature. The poet is supposed to 
be musing by night on the banks of the river 
Ctuden, and by the ruins of Lincluden-Abbey, 
founded in the twelfth century, in the reign of 
Malcolm IV. of whose present situation the 
reader may find some account in Pennant's 
Tour in Scotland, or Grose's Antiquities ©f 
that division of the island. Such a time and 
such a place are well fitted for holding eon- 
Terse with aerial beings. Though this poem 
has a political bias, yet it may be presumed 
that no reader of taste, whatever his opinions 
may be, would forgive it being omitted. Our 
poet 's prudence suppressed the song of Liberty, 
perhaps fortunateiy for his reputation. It 
may be questioned whether, even in the 're- 
sources of his genius, a strain of poetry could 
havo been found worthy of the grandeur and 
solemnity of this preparation. 



But loyalty, truce! we're on daugero-.is 
ground, 

Who knows how the fashions may alter, 
The doctrine, to-day, that is loyalty souud, 

To-morrow may bring us a halter. 

I send you a trifle, a head of a bard, 
A trifle scarce worthy your care ; 

But accept it, good sir, as a mark of regard, 
Sincere as a saint's dying prayer. 

Now life's chilly evening dim shades on your 

And ushers the long drearv night : 
But you, like- the star that athwart gilds the 
sky, 
Your course to the latest is blight. 

My muse jilted me here, and turned a corner 
on me, and I have not got again into her good 
graces. Do me the justice to believe me sin- 
cere in my grateful remembrance of the many 
civilities you have honoured me with since 1 
came to Edinburgh, and in assuring you that i 
have the honour to be, 

Revered Sir, 
Your obliged and very humble Servant, 
R. BURNS, 
Edinburgh, 1787. 



CALEDONIA. 

Tune — '« Caledonian Hunt's Delight. " 

There was once a day, but old Time then 
was young, 
That brave Caledonia, the chief of her line. 
From some of your northern deities sprung, 
(Who knows not that brave Caledonia's di- 
vine?) 
From Tweed to the Orcades was her domain, 
To hunt, or to pasture, or do what she 
would : 
Her heavenly relations there fixed her reign, 
And pledg'd her their godheads to warrant 
it good. 

A lambkin in peace, but a lion in war, 

The pride of her kindred the heroine grew . 
Her grandsire, old Odin, triumphantly 

«« Whoe'er shall provoke thee th' encounter 

shall rue!" 
With tillage or pasture at times she would 

sport, 
To feed her fair flocks by her green rustling 

But chiefly the woods were her fav'rite resort. 
Her darling amusement, the hounds and the 



Long quiet she reigned } 'till thitherward 

A flight of bold eagles from Adria's strand :+ 
Repeated, successive, for many long years, 
They darken 'd the air, and they plunder M 
the land : 



BURNS— POEMS. 



Their pounces were murder, and terror their 

They'd conquer'd and ruin'd a world be- 

She took to her hills and her arrows let fly, 
The daring invaders they fled or they died. 

The fell Harpy-raven took wing from the 
north, 
The scourge of the seas, and the dread of 
the shore ; * 
The wild Scandinavian *ioar issued forth 

To wanton in carnage, and wallow in gore:} 
O'er countries and kingdoms their fury pre- 

No arts could appease them, nor arms could 

repel,; 
But brave Caledonia in vain they assail'd, 
As Largs well can witness, and Loncartie 

tell, t 

The Cameleon-savage disturb 'd her repose, 

With tumult, disquiet, rebellion and strife j 
Provoked beyond bearing, at last she arose, 

And robb'd him at ones of his hopes and his 
life : § 
The Anglian lion, the terror of France, 

Oft prowling, ensanguin'd the Tweed's sil- 
ver flood ; 
Bat taught by the bright Caledonian lance, 

He learned to fear in his own native wood. 



For brave Caledonia immortal must be ; 

I'll prove it from Euclid as clear as the sun : 
Rectangled triangle, the figure we'll choose, 

The upright is Chance, and old Time is the 

But brave Caledonia's the hypothenuse ; 
Then ergo she'll match "them, and match 
them always. j| 



THE FOLLOWING POEM 

WAS WRITTEN TO A GENTLEMAN WHO 

HAD SENT HIM A NEWSPAPER, AND OF- 

■ KERED TO CONTINUE IT FREE OF EX« 

PENSE. 

Kind sir, I've read your paper through, 
And faith, to me, 'twas really new ! 
How gness'd ye, sir, what maist I wanted! 
This mony a day I've grain'd and gaunted, 
To ken what French mischief was brewin' ; 
Or what the druinlie Dutch were Join' ; 



* The Saxons. '-f The Danes. 

iTwo famous battles, in which the Danes 
or Norwegians were defeated. 

§ The Highlanders of the Isles. 

(I This singular figure of poetry, taken from 
the mathematics, refers to the famous proposi- 
tion of Pythagoras, the 47th of Euclid. In a 
right-angled triangle, the square of the hypo- 
thenuse is always equal to the squares of the 



That vile doup-skelper. Emperor Joseph, 

If Venus yet had got his nose off ; 

Or how the collieshangie works 

Atween the Russian and the Turks J 

Or if the Swede, before he halt, 

Would play anither Charles the Twalt *. 

If Denmark, ony body spako't ; 

Or Poland, wha had now the tack o't ; 

How cut-throat Prussian blades were hing 

How libbet Italy was singin ; 

If Spaniard, Portuguese, or Swiss, 

Were sayin or takin ought amiss : 

Or how our merry lads at hame, 

In Britain';* court kept up the game ; 

How royal George, the Lord leuk o e 

Was managing St Stephen's quorum ; 

If sleekit Chatham Will was livin, 

Or glaikit Charlie got his nieve in ; 

How daddie Burke the plea was cookin, 

If Warren Hastings' neck was yeukin ; 

How cesses, stents, and fees were rax'd, 

Or if bars a— a yet were tax'd ; 

The new9 o' princes, dukes, and earls. 

Pimps, sharpers, bawds, and opera-girls i 

If that daft buckie, Geordie Wales, 

Was threshin still at hizzies' tails, 

Or if he was growin oughtlins douser, 

And no a perfect kintra cooser. — 

A' this and mair I never heard of ; 

And, but for you, I might despair'd of. 

So gratefu', back your news I send you, 

And pray, a' guid things may attend you I 

Ellisland, Monday Morning, 1790. 



ml 



two other sides. 



ON PASTORAL POETRY. 

Hail Pcesie ! thou nymph reserved! 

In chase o' thee, what crowds hae swerved 

Frae common sense, or sunk enerved 

'Mang heaps o* clavcrs ; 
And och J o'er aft thy joys hae starved, 

'Mid a' thy favours ! 

Say, Lassie, why thy train amang. 
While loud the trump's heroic clang, 
And sock or buskin skelp alang 

To death or marriage ; 
Scarce ane has tried the Shepherd-sang 

But wi' miscarriage 1 

In Homer's craft Jock Milton thrives ; 
Eschylus' pen Will Shakspeare drives ; 
Wee Tope, the knurlin, 'till him rives 

Horatian fame ; 
In thy eweet sang, Barbauld survives 

Even Sappho's flame. 

But thee, Theocritus, wha matches ? 
They're no herd's ballats, Maro's catches j 
Squire Pope but busks his skinlin patches 

O' heathen tatters: 
I pass by handers, nameless wretches, 

That ape their betters. 

In this braw ag& o' wit and tear, 
Will nane the Shepherd's whistle mair 
Blaw sweetly in its native air 

And rural grace ; 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



Yes ! there is ans ; a Scottish callan ! 
There's ane ; come forrit, honest Allan ! 
Thou need na jouk behinl the hallan, 

A chiel so clever ; 
The teeth o' time may gnaw Tamiallan, 

But thou's for ever. 

Thon paints auld nature !o the nines, 

In thy sweet Caledonian lines ; 

Nae gowdin stream thro' mvriies twines, 

Where Philomel, 
While nightly breeze? sweep the vines, 

Her griefs will tell ! 

la gowany glens thy burnie strays, 
Where bonuie lasses bleach iheir claes ; 
Or trots by haze'ly shaws or braes, 

VVi' hawthorns gray, 
Where blackbirds join the shepherd's lays 

At close o' day. 

Thy rural loves are nature's sel ; 

Nae bombast spates o' nonsense swell ; 

Nae snap conceits, but that sweet spell 

O' witchin' love, 
That charm that can the strongest quell, 

The sternest move. 



THE BATTLE OF SHERIFF-MUIR, 

BET'iTZES THS Dl'KB OX ARGYLE AND 
THJ5 EARL OK HAS. 

«' O cam ye here the fight to shun, 
Or herd" the sheep wi' me, man ! 
Or were ye at the Sherra-inuir, 

And did the battle see, man ?** 
*' I saw the battle sair and teugh, 
And reekin-rei ran moaie a sheugh, 
Mr heart for fear gae sough for sough. 
To Lear the thuds, and see the cluds 
O' clans frae woods, in tartan duds, 
Wha glaum'd at kingdoms three, man. 

The red-coat lads wi' black cockades, 
To meet them were na slaw, man ; 

They rcsh'd and oush'd, and bluid outgush'd, 
And mony a bo'ak did fa', man : 

The great Argyle led on his files, 

I wat they glanced twenty miles ! 

They hack'd and hash'd, while broadswords 
clash'd. 

And thro' they dash'd, and hew'd and 

Till fey men died awa, man. 

But had yon seen the phflibegs, 

And skyTin tartan trews, man, 
Wlien in the teeth they dar'd our whigs, 

And covenant true blues, man ; 



Inlm 



:nded 1; 



When bayonets opposed the targe, 
And thousands hastened to the charge, 
Wi' Highland wrath they frae the sheath, 
Drew blades o' death, till out o' breath, 
They fled like frighted does, man. " 



' ■ how dell Tam can that be trae f 

The chase gaed frae the north, man ; 
I saw myself, they did pursue 

The horsemen back to Forth, man ; 
And at Dumblane, in mj ain sight, 
They took the brig wi' a' their might, 
And straight to Stirling wing'd their flight j 
But, cursed lot ! the gates were shut ; 
And mony a hunted poor red-coat 
For fear amaist did swarf, man. " 

'• Mj sister Kate came up the gate 

Wi' crowdie unto me, man : 
She Srtoor she saw some rebels run, 

Frae Perth unto Dundee, man ; 
Their left-hand general had nae skill, 
The Angus lads had nae good will 
That day their neebor's blood to spill j 
For fear by foes, that they should lose 
Their cogs o' brose ; all crying woes, 

And so it goes, you see, man. " 

" They've lo=t some gallant gentlemen, 
Amang the Highland c'.ans, man; 

I fear hit Lord Panmure is slain, 
Or fal en in whiggish hands, man ; 

Now wad ye sing this double fight, 

Some fell for wraug, and some for right ; 

But mony bade the world gude-night ; 

Then ye may tell, how pell and niell, 

By red claymores, and muskets' kneli, 

Wi' dying yell, the tories fell, 
And whigs to hell did flee, man. "* 



SKETCH, 
NEW YEAR'S DAY. 

TO MBS DX^fLOP. 

This day, Time winds the exhausted chain, 
To run the twelvemonths' length again ; 
I see the old bald-pated fellow, 
With ardent eyes, complexion sallow, 
Adjust the unimpair'd machine, 
To wheel the equal, dnli routine. 

The absent lover, minor heir, 

In vain assail him with their prayer. 

Deaf as my frieud he sees them press, 

Nor makes the hour one moment less. 

Will you (the Maor's with the hounds, 

The happy tenants share his rounds ; 

Coila's fair Rachel's care to day,+ 

And blooming Keith's engaged with Cray ;) 

From housewife cares a minute borrow — 

— That grandchild's cap will do to-morrow — 

And join with me a moralizing, 

Una ciay's propitious to be wise in. 

First, what did yesternight deliver; 

' ' Another year is gone for ever. " 

And what is this day's strong suggestion ! 

" The passing moment's, all we rest on ! " 



rhis was written about the time our bard 
made his lour to the Highlands, 1787. 

f This young lady was drawing a pictur« 
Coila from the Vision, see page 131. 



BURNS — POEMS. 



Best on— for what ! What do we here ? 
Or why regard the passing year ? 
Will time, anius'd with proverb 'd lore, 
Add to our date one minute more ? 
A few days may— a few years must- 
Repose us in the silent dust. 
Then, is it wise to damp our bliss ? 
Yes, all such reasonings are amiss ! 
The voice of nature loudly cries. 
And many a message from the skies, 
That something in us never dies : 
That on this frail, uncertain state, 
llang matters of eternal weight ; 
That future-life in worlds unknown 
Must take its hue from this alone : 
"Whether as heavenly glory bright, 
Or dark as misery's woful night — 
Since then, my honour'd first of friends, 
On this poor being all depends : 
Let us th* important now employ, 
And live as those who never die. 
Tho' you, with days and honours crown'd, 
"Witness that filial circle round, 
(A sight life's sorrows to repulse, 
A sight pale envy to convulse) 
Others now claim your chief regard, 
Yourself, you wait your bright reward. 



EXTEMPORE, 

ON THE LATE MR WILLIAM 
SMELL1E,* 

AUTHOR OP THE PHILOSOPHY OP NA- 
TURAL HISTORY, AND MEMBER OP THE 
ANTIQUARIAN AND ROYAL SOCIETIES 
OP EDINBURGH. 



night, 
His uncomb'd grizzly locks wild-staring 

thatch'd, 
A head for thought profound and clear, un- 

match 'd; 
Yet, tho : his caustie wit was biting rude, 
His heart was warm, benevolent, and good. 



POETICAL INSCRIPTION, 

FOR 

AN ALTAR TO INDEPENDENCE, 



* Mr Smellie, and our poet, were both mem 
feejsofaclub in Edinburgh, under the name 
fit' Crocballan Feucibles. 



Prepared power's proudest frown to bra '«, 
Who wilt not be, nor have a slave : 
Virtue alone who dost revere, 
Thy own reproach alone dost fear, 
Approach this shrine and worship here. 



THE DEATH OF MR RIDDEL. 

No more, ye warblers of the wood, no more. 
Nor pour your descant grating on my ear : 
Thou young-eyed Spring, thy charms I can- 
not bear ; 
More welcome were to me grim Winter's 
wildest roar. 

How can ye please, ye flowers, with all your 

dies? 
£ Ye blow upon the sod that wraps my 

How can I to the tuneful strain attend ? 
That strain pours round th' untimely tomb 
where Riddel lies, f 



The Man of Worth, and has not left his 
peer. 
Is in his ' narrow house' for ever darkly low. 

Thee, Spring, again with joy shall others 

greet; 
Me» mem 'ry of my loss will only meet. 



A LADY FAMED FOR HER CAPRICE. 

How cold is that bosom which folly once fired. 

How pale is that cheek where the rouge 

lately glisten 'd: 

How silent that tongue which the echoes oft 

tired, 

How dull is that ear which to flattery so 

If sorrow and anguish their exit await, 

From friendship and dearest affection re- 
moved ; 
How doubly severer, Eliza, thy fate, 
Thou diedst -mwept, as thou livedst un- 
loved. 

Loves, graces, and virtues, I call not on yon ; 
So shy, grave, and distant, ye shed not a 

But come» all ye offspring of folly so true. 
And flowers let us cull for Eliza's cold bier. 



t Robert Riddel, Esq. of Friar's Carse, a 
very worthy character, and one to whom our 
hard thought himself under many obligations. 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



We'll search through the garden for each silly 
flower. 
We'll roam through the forest for each idle 

But chiefly the nettle, so typical, shower, 
For none e'er approach'd her but rued the 
rash deed. 

We'll sculpture the marble, well measure the 
lay; 
Here Vanity strums on her idiot lyre; 
There keen indignation shall dart on her prey, 
Which spurning contempt shall redeem from 
his ire. 

EPITAPH. 

Here lies, now a prey to insulting neglect, 
What once was a butterfly gay in life's 

Want only of wisdom denied her respect, 
Want only of goodness denied her esteem. 



ANSWER TO A MANDATE 

SENT BY THB SURVEYOR OF THE WIN- 
EOWS, CARRIAGES, &C. TO EACH FAR- 
MER, ORDERING HIM TO SEND A SIGNED 
LIST OF HIS HORSES, SERVANTS, 
WHEEL CARRIAGES, &C. AND WHE- 
THER HE WAS A MARRIED MAN OR A 
BACHELOR, AND WHAT CHILDREN HE 
HAD. 



My horses, servants, carts and graitb, 
To which I'm free to tak my aith. 
Imprimis, then, for carriage cattle, 
I hae four brutes o' gallant mettle, 
As ever drew before a pettle. 
My hand-afore,* a guid auld has been, 
And wight and wilfu' a* his days seen ; 
My hand-a-hinf- a guid brown filly, 
Wha aft has borne me safe frae Killie, f 
And your auld borough mony a time, 
In days when riding was nae crime : 
My fur-a-hin,§ a guid, grey beast, 
As e'er in tug or tow was traced : 
The fourth, a Highland Donald hssty, 
A d-mn'd red-wud, Kilburnie blastie. 
For-by a cowte, of cowtes the wale, 
As ever ran before a tail ; 
An he be spared to be a beast, 
He'll draw me fifteen pund at least. 



* The fore-horse on the left-hand, in the 
plough. 

t The hindmost on the left-hand, in the 
plough. 

f Kilmarnock. 

§ The hindmost on the right hand; in the 
plough. 



An auld wheel -barrow, mair for token, 
Ae leg and baith the trams are broken ; 
I made a poker o' the spindle, 
And my auld wither brunt the trundle. 
For men, I've jbree mischievous boys, 
Run-deils for rantin and for noise; 
A gadsman ane, a thresher t'other, 
Wee Davoc bauds the nowte in father. 
I rule them, as I ought, discreetly, 
And often labour them completely, 
And aye on Sundays duly nightly, 
I on the questions tairge them tightly, 
'Till, faith, wee Davuc's grown sae gleg, 
(Tho' scarcely langer than my leg) 
He'll screed you aff effectual calling, 
As fast as ony in the dwalling. 

I've nane in female servant station, 
Lord keep me aye frae a' temptation I 
I hae nae wife, and that my bliss is, 
And ye hae laid nae tax on misses ; 
For weans I'm mair than weel contented, 
Heaven sent me ane mair than I wanted : 
My sonsie, smirking, dear bought Bess, 
She stares the daddie in her face, 
Enough of ought ye like but grace. 
But her, my bonny, sweet wee lady t 
I've said enough for her already, 
And if ye tax her or her mither, 
By the L — d ye'se get them a' thegither, 

And now, remember, Mr Aiken, 
Nae kind of licence out I'm takin*. 
Thro' dirt and dub for life I'll paidle, 
Ere I sae dear pay for a saddle ; 

irdy stumps, the Lord be thankit 1 
my gates on foot I'll shank it. 



Aada 

This list wi' my ai 
The day and date i 
Then know all ye 
Subscripsi huic, 



l hand I've wrote it, 
i under notet ; 
fhom it concerns, 

ROBERT BURNS. 



Nae gentle dames.'tho' e'er sae fair;|| 
Shall ever be my muse's care ; 
Their titles a' are empty show ; 
Gie me my Highland lassie, O. 

Within the glen sae bushy, O, 
Aboon the plain sae rushy, O, 
1 set me down, wi' right good will, 
To sing my Highland lassie, O. 

were yon hills and valleys mine, 
Yon palace and yon gardens fine ! 
The world then the love should know 

1 bear my Highland lassie, O. 

Within the glen, &o. 



II Gentle is used here in opposition to sim- 
ple, in the Scottish and old English sense of 
the word. Nee gentle dames. — No high 



BURNS POEMS. 



But while my crimson currents flow, 
I'll love my Highland lassie, O. 
Wilhiu the glen, &c. 

Aliho' thro' foreign clims« I range, 
I know her heart will never change, 
For her bosom burns with honour's glow, 
My faithful Highland lassie, O. 
Within the glen, &c. 

For her I'll dare the billow's roar, 
For her I'll trace a distant shore, 
That Indian wealth may lustre throw, 
Around my Highland lassie, O, 
Within the glen, &c. 

She has my heart, she has my hand. 
By sacred truth and honour's band I 
' 1111 the mortal stroke shall lay me low, 
I'm thine my Highland lassie, O. 
Within the glen, &c. 

Farewell the glen sae bushy, 0, 
Farewell the plain sae rushy, O, 
To other lands I now must go, 
To singrn-y Highland lassie, O. * 



IMPROMPTU, 

ON MRS 'S BIRTH DAY. 

4th November, 179S. 

Old Winter with his frosty beard, 
Thus cnce to Jove his prayer preferr'dj 
•* What have I done of all the year, 
To bear this hated doom severe ? 
My cheerless suns no pleasure know ; 
Night's horrid car drags, dreary, slow s 
lily dismal months no joys are crowning, 
But spleeny English hanging, drowning 

Now, Jove, for once be mighty civil; 

To counterbalance all this evil ; 

Give me, and I've no mere to say, 

Give me Maria's natal day ! 

That brilliant gift will so enrich Jne, 

Spring, Summer,Autumn cannot match me ;' 

•* 'Tis .-one '. " says Jove ; so ends my story, 

And Winter once rejoiced in glory. 



ADDRESS TO A LADY. 

Oh wert thou in the cculd blast, 

On yonder lea, on yonder lea. 
My plaidie to the angry airt, 

I'd shelter thee, I'd shelter thee : 
Or did misfortune's bitter storms 

Around thee biaw, around thee blaw, 
Thy bield should be my bosom, 

To share it a', to share it a'. 

Or were I in the wildest waste, 

Sae black and bare, sae black and bare, 

The desert were a paradise, 
If thou wert there, if thou wert there. 



t)r were I monarch o' the globe, 

With thee to reign, with thee to reign 

The brightest jewel in my crown 

Wad be my queen, wad be my queeii. 



TO A YOUNG LADY, 



MISS JESSY I 



-, OV DUMFRIES ; 



With books which the bard presented her. 

Thine be the volumes, Jessy fair, 
And with them take the poet's prayer ; 
That fate may in her faifest page, 
With every kindliest, best piesage 
Of future bliss, enrol thy name : 
With native worth, and spotless fame, 
And wakeful caution, still aware 
Of ill— but chief, man's felon snare ; 
All blameless joys on earth we find, 
And all the treasures of the mind — 
These be thy guardian and reward ; 
So prays thy faithful friend, the bard. 



ning walk. 

Sing on, sweet thrush, upon the leafless 

Sing on, sweet bird, I listen to thy strain, 
See aged Winter 'mid his surly reign. 
At tby blythe carol clears his furrowed brow. 

So in lone poverty's dominion drear. 

Sits meek content with light unanxiotts 

heart, 
Welcomes the rapid moments, bids them 
part, 
Nor asks if they bring aught to hope or fear. 



Yet come, thou child of poverty and care, 
The mile high heaven bestowed, that mite 
' with thee I'll share. 



EXTEMPORE, 

TO MR S — E. 

On refusing to dine with him. after havir.g 
been promised 'the first of company, and the 
first of cookery, 17th December, 1795. 

No more of your guests, be they titled or not, 

And cookery the first m the nation : 
Who is proof to thy personal convert and 



Is proof to all other temptation, 



TO MR S—E, 

WITH A PRESENT OF A DOZEX OF FORTES. 

O had the malt thy strength of mind, 
^Or hops the flavour of thy wit ; 
' i\\ ere Lj-ink f^r tirst of human kind, 

A gift that e'en fcr S~e were tit. 
Jerusalem Tavern, Dumfries. 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 

Aiake, alake, the mettle deil. 



THE DUMFRIES VOLUNTEERS. 

Tone — •« Push about the Janus." 

April, 1795. 

Does haczLty Gaul invasion threat ? 

Then let the loons beware, sir, 
There's wooden walls upon our seas. 

And volunteers on shore, sir. 
The N iih shall run to Corsinccn,* 

And Criffel sink in Sol way, f 
Ere we permit a foreign foe 

On British ground to rally ! 

*« Fall derail, &c. 

O let us not, like snarling ijkes, 

In wrangling be dhided ; 
'Till s!ap come in an unco loon 

Aud wi* a rung: decide it. 
Be Britain still to Britain true, 

Aniacg oursels united ; 
For never but by British hands 

Maun British wran^s be rishted. 
«« Fai de rail, &c 

The kettle o' the kirk and state, 

Perhaps a clout may fail in't j 
But deil a foreign tinkler loon 

Shall ever ca' a nail in't j 
Jur fathers' bluid the kettle bought, 

And wha wad dare to spoil it j 
Sy heaven the sacrilegious dog 

Shall fuel be to boil it. 

" Fall de rail, &c 

The wretch that wad a tyrant own, 

And the wretch, his true-born brother, 
Who would set the mob aboon the throne. 

May they be damn'a together! 
"Who will not sing •* God save the king," 

Shall hang as high's the steeple ; 
Bat, while we sing " God save the king," 

>Ve 'il ue 'tr forget the people. 



; 



*itche» 
Are at it, skelpin' ! jig and reel, 

la my poor pouches. 

I, modestly, fu' fain wad hint it t 
That one pound one, I sairly want it. 
If wi' the hizzie down ye send it* 

It would be kind; 
And while my heart wi» life-blood dunted 

I'd bear't in mind. 

So may the auld year gang out moaning 

To see the new come laden, groaning, 

double plenty o'er the loauin 

To thee and thine ; 
Domestic peace and comforts crowning 

The hail design. 

POSTSCRIPT. 

heard this while how I've been licke 
And by fell death was nearly nicket : 
loon ! he gat me by the fecket. 
And sair me sheuk : 
But, by guid luck, I lap a wicket, 

Aud turn'd a neuk. 

But by that health, I've got a share o't, 
And by that life I'm promised ma';r o't, 
My hale and weel I'll tak' a' care o't, 

A tentier way : 
Then fareweel foliy, hide and hair o't, 

" r ance and aye. 



The friend whom wild from wisdom's way, 
The fumes of wine infuriate send : 

(Not moony madness more astray) 

"Who but deplores that hapless friend ? 

Mine was th' insensate frenzied part, 
Ah why should I s.ch scenes outlive 1 

Scenes so abhorrent to my heart J 
'lis thine to pity and forgive. 






* A high hill at the source of the Nith. 
•} A well knowu mountain at the mouth of 
Ike sain* riier, 



FOEM ON" LIFE, 



My honoured colonel, deep I feel 
Your interest in the poet's weal : 
Ah ! how sma' heart hae I to speel 

1 he steep Parnassus, 
Surrouaded thus by bolus pill, 

And potion glasses. 

O what a canty world were it, 

Would pain and care, and sickness spare it : 

" d fortune, favour, worth, and merit, 

As they deserve ; 
(And aye a rowth, roast beef and claret ; 

Syne wha would starve ?) 

Dame life, (ho* fiction out may trick her, 
And in paste gems and frippery deck her ; 



BURNS — POEMS. 






Ob ! flickering, feeble, and nnsicker 
I've found her still, 

Aye wavering like the willow wicker, 
'Tween good and ill. 

Then that curst carmagnole, auld Satan, 
Watches like baudrons by a rattan, 
Our sinfu' saul to get a claut ou 

Wi' felon ire; 
Syne, whip! his tail ye'll ne'er cast 6aut o 

He's aff like fire. 

Ah Nick ! ah Nick, it is na fair, 
First showing us the tempting ware, 
Bright wines and bonnie lasses rare, 

To put us daft ; 
Syne weave unseen thy spider's snare 

hell's dainn'd wafu 

Poor man, the flie, aft bizzes by, 
And aft as chance he comes thee nigh, 
Thy auld dainn'd elbow veuks wi* joy. 

And hellish pleasure; 
Already in thy fancy's eye, 

Thy sicker treasure. 

Soon hejls o'er gowdie ! in he gangs, 
And like a sheep-head on the tangs. 
Thy girning laugh enjoys his pangs 

And murdering wrestle, 
As dangling in the wind he hangs 

A gibbet's tassel. 

But lest you think I am uncivil, 

To plague you wkh this draunting drivel. 

Abjuring a' intentions evil, 

1 quat my pen ; 
The Lord preserve us frae the devil ! 

Amen I amen I 



ADDRESS TO THE TOOTH-ACHE. 



And ranked plagues their numbers tell, 
Indreadfu' raw, 

Thou, Tooth-ache, surely bear'st the bell, 
Amang them a' ! 

O thou grim mischief-making chiel, 

gars the notes o' discord squeel, 
'Till daft mankind aft dance a reel 

In gore a shoe-thick ; 
i* the faes o' Scotland's weel 

A towmond's Tooth-Ache. 



My c 



iuy curse upon your venom'd stang, 

That shoots my tortur'd gums alai-g ; 

And thro' my lugs gies inony a twang, 

Wi' gnawing veugeaucej 
Tearing my nerves wi' bitter pang, 

Like racking engines ! 

When fevers burn, or ague freezes, 
Rheumatics gnaw, or colic squeezes; 
Our neighbour's sympathy may ease us, 

Wi' pitying moan; 
But thee— thou hell o' a' diseases, 

Aye mocks our groan 



As round the lire the giglets keckle, 
To see me loup ; 

While raving mad, I wish a heckle 
Were in their doup. 

O' a' the num'rous human dools, 

111 har'sts, daft bargains, cutty stools, 

Or worthy friends raked i' the mools, 

Sad sight to see ! 
The tricks o* knaves or fash o' fools, 

Thou bear'st the gree. 

' hell, 



Tune— 



' Morag. ' 



wha is she that lo'es me, 
And has my heart a-keeping ? 

sweet is she that lo'es ine, 
As dews o' summer weeping, 
In tears the rose-bud steeping. 

CHOHUS. 

O that's the lassie o' my heart, 

My lassie ever dearer ; 
O that's the queen o' womankind, 

And ne'er a ane to peer her. 

If thou shall meet a lassie, 

In grace and beauty charming. 

That e'en thy chosen lassie, 

Ere while thy breast sae warming, 
Had ne'er sic powers alarming. 
O that's, &c 

If thou hadst heard her talking, 
And thy attentions plighted. 

That ilka body talking, 

But her by thee is slighted : 
And thou art all delighted. 

O that's, &c 



But her thou hast deserted, 
And ihou art broken hearted— 
O that 's, &c. 



tie's ta'en the parting kiss, 
i'er the mountain he is gane ; 
And with him is a' my bliss, 

Nought but griefs with me remain. 

Spare my luve, ye winds that blaw, 
Plaihy sleets and beating rain, 

Spare my luve, thou feathery snaw, 
Drifting o'er the frozen plain. 

Wben the shades of evening creep 
O'er the day's fair, gladsome e'e, 

Sound and safely may he sleep, 
Sweetly blythe his waukening be! 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



For where'er he distant roves, 
Jockey's heart is still at hame. 



SONG. 

My Peggy's face, my Peggy's form 
The frost of hermit age might warm : 
My Peggy's worth, my Peggy's inind, 
Might charm the first of human kind : 
I love my Peggy 's angel air, 
Her face so truly, heavenly fair, 
Her native grace so void of art, 
But I adore my Peggy's heart. 

The lily's hue, the rose's dye, 
The kindling lustre of an eye ; 
Who but owns their magic sway, 
"Who but knows they all decay ! 
The tender thrill, the pitying tear, 
The generous purpose, nobly dear, 
The gentle look, that rage disarms, 
These are all immortal charms. 



WRITTEN IN A WRAPPER, 

INCLOSING A LETTISH TO CAPTAIN GROSE, 
TO BE LEFT WITH MR CARDONNEL, 
ANTIQUARIAN. 

Tuns — " Sir John Malconi. " 

Ken ye ought o' Captain Grose ? 
Igo, and ago, 

If he's among his friends or foes ? 
Irani, coram, dago. 

Is he South, or is he North f 

Igo, and ago, 
Or drowned in the river Forth ? 

Iram, coram, dago. 

Is he slain by Highland bodies ? 

Igo, and ago, 
And eaten like a wether haggis ? 

Iram, coram, dago. 



Where'er he be, the Lord be near him ; 

Igo, and ago, 
As for the deil he daur na steer him, 
Iram, coram, dago. 

But please transmit th' inclosed letter, 

Igo, and ago, 
Which will oblige your humble debtor. 

Iram, coram, dago. 

So may you have auld stanes in store, 

Igo, and ago, 
The very stanes that Adam bore. 

So may ye get in glad possession, 

Igo, and ago, 
^he coins o' Satan's coronation ! 

Iram, coram, dago. 






ROBERT GRAHAM, Esq. OF FINTRY. 

ON RECEIVING A FAVOUR. 

I call no goddess to inspire my strains, 
A fabled Muse may suit a bard that feigns ; 
Friend of my life ! my ardent spirit burns, 
And all the tribute of my heart returns, 
For boons accorded, goodness ever new, 
The gilt still dearer as the giver you. 

Thou orb of day ! thou other paler light t 
And all ye many sparkling stars of night '. 
If aught that giver from my mind efface j 
If I that giver's bounty e'er disgrace; 
Then roll to me, along your wandering 

Only to number out a villain's years ! 



EPITAPH ON A FRIEND. 

An honest man here lies at rest, 
As e'er God with his image blest ; 
The friend of man, the friend of truth, 
The friend of age, and guide of youth : 
Few hearts like his, with virtue warm'd, 
Few heads with knowledge so informed : 
If there's another world, he lives in bliss ; 
If there is none, he made the best of this. 



A GRACE BEFORE DINNER, 



O Thou, who kindly dost provide 



And if it please thee, heavenly guide, 

May never worse be sent ; 
But whether granted or denied, 

Lord bless us with content ! 
Amen I 



TO MY DEAR AND MUCH HONOURED 
FRIEND, 

MRS DUNLOP, OF DUNLOP. 

ON SENSIBILITY. 

Sensibility how charming, 
Thou, my friend, canst truly tell; 

But distress, with horrors arming, 
Thou hast also known too well I 

Fairest flower, behold the lily, 

Blooming in the sunny ray ; 
L«t the blast sweep o'er the valleyj 

See it prostrate on the clay. 



BURXS POEMS. 



Hear the wood-lark charm the forest) 
Telling o'er his little joys : 

Hapless bird '. a prey the surest, 
To each pirate of the skies. 



Dearly bought the hidden treasure, 
Finer feelings can bestow : 

Chords that vibrate sweetest pleasure, 
Thrill the deepest notes of woe. 



A VERSE, 

COMPOSED AND REPEATED BY BURKS, TO 
THE MASTER OE THE HOUSE, ON TAK- 
ING LEAVE AT A FLACE IN THE HIGH- 
LANDS WHERE HE HAD BEEN HOSF1- 
TABLY ENTERTAINED. 

When death's dark stream I ferry o'er ; 

A time that surely shall come; 
In heaven itself, I'll ask no more, 

Than just a Highland welcome. 



CORRESPONDENCE 



MR GEORGE THOMSON. 



CORRESPONDENCE, &c. 



MR THOMSON TO MR BURNS. 

sir, Edinburgh, September, 1792. 

For some years past, I have, with a friend or 
two, employed many leisure hours in selecting 
and collating the most favourite of our nation- 
al melodies for publication. "We have engaged 
Pleyelf the most agreeable composer living, to 
put accompaniments to these, and also to com- 
pose an instrumental prelude and conclusion 
to each air, the better to fit them for concerts, 
both public and private. To render this 
work perfect, we are desirous to nave the 
poetry improved, wherever it seems unworthy 
of the music ; and that it is so in many in- 
stances, is allowed by every one conversant 
with our musical collections. The edito 
these seem in general to have depended 01 
music proving an excuse for the verses ; 
hence some charming melodies are united to 
mere nonsense and dpggrel, while others are 
accommodated with rhymes so loose and indeli- 
cate, as cannot be sung in decent company. 
To remove thi3 reproach, would be an easy 
task to the author of The Cotter's Saturday 
Night ; and, for the honour of Caledonia, I 
would fain hope he may be induced to take up 
the pen. If so, we shall be enabled to present 
the public with a collection infinitely more 
interesting than any that has yet appeared, 
and acceptable to all persons of taste, whether 
they wish for correct melodies, delicate ac- 
companiments, or characteristic verses. — We 
will esteem your poetical assistance a particu- 
lar favour, besides paying any reasonable price 
you shall please to demand for it. Profit is 
quite a secondary consideration with us, and 
we are resolved to spare neither pains nor ex- 
pense on the publication. Tell me frankly 
then, whether you will devote your leisure 
to writing twenty or twenty-five songs, suited 
to the particular melodies, which I am pre- 
pared to send you. A few songs, exception- 
able only in some of their verses, I will like- 
wise submit to your consideration : leaving it 
to you, either to mend these or make new 
songs in their stead. It is superfluous to as- 
sure you, that I have no intention to displace 
any of the sterling old eongs ; those only will 
be removed which appear quite silly, or abso- 



lutely indecent. Even these shall all be exa- 
mined by Mr Burns, and if he is of opinion 
that any of them are deserving of the music in 
such cases, no divorce shall take place. 

Relying on the letter accompanying this, (o 
be forgiven for the liberty 1 have tuken in ad- 
dressing you, I am with great esteem, sir, 
your most obedient humble servant, 

O. THOMSON 



MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. 

SIR, Dumfries, 16th September, 1792. 
I have just this moment got your letter. As 
the request you make to me will positively add 
to my enjoyments in complying with it, f shall 
enter into your undertaking with all the small 
portion of abilities I have, strained to their ut- 
most exertion by the impulse cf enthusiasm. 
Only, don't hurry me : ♦« Deil tak the hind- 
most" is by no means the art de guerre of mv 
muse. Will you, as 1 am inferior to none of 
you in enthusiastic attachment to the poetry 
and music of old Caledonia, and since yon re- 
quest it, have cheerfully promised my mite of 
assistance — will you let me have the list of 
your airs, with the first line of the printed- 
verses ycu intend for tbem, that I may have an 
opportunity of suggesting any alteration that 
may occur to me. You know 'tis in the way 
of my trade; still leaving you, gentlemen, the 
undoubted right of publishers, to approve, or 
reject, at your pleasure, for your own publica- 
tion, Apropos, if you are for English verses, 
there is, on my part, an end of the matter. 
Whether in the simplicity of the ballad, or the 
pathos of the song, I can only hope to pleasj 
myself in being allowed at least a sprinkling of 
our native tongue. English verses, particu- 
larly the works of Scotsmen, that have merit, 
are certainly very eligible. • Tweedside ;• 'Ah ! 
the poor Shepherd's mournful fate;' * Ah ! 
Chloris, could I now but sit,* &c. you cannot 
mend; but such insipid stuff as '"To Fanny 
fair, could I impart,' &c. usuully set to • The 
Mill Mill O,' is a disgrace to the collections in 
which it has already appeared, and would 
doubly disgrace a collection '.hit wi'l have the 



256 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



superior merit of yours. But more of this in 
the farther prosecution of the business, if I 
am called on for my strictures and amendments 
I say, amendments ; for 1 will not alter ex- 
cept where 1 myself, at least, think that I 
amend. 

As to any remuH«ration, you may think my 
soDgs either above or below price ; for they 
shall absolutely be the one or the other. In 
the honest enthusiasm with -which I embark in 
your undertaking, to talk of money, wages, 
fee, hire, &c. would be downright prostitution 
of soul I A proof of each of the songs that I 
compose or amend, I shall receive as a favour. 
In the rustic pbrasa of the season, "Uuid 
speed the warkl" 

I am, Sir, your very humble servant, 
■ K- BURNS. 

P. S. I have some particular reasons for 
wishing my interference to be known as little 
as possible. 



MR THOMSON TO MR BURNS. 

DEAR SIR, 

Edinburgh, I3lh October, 1792. 
I received, with much satisfaction, your 
pleasant and obliging letter, and I return my 
warmest acknowledgments for the enthusiasm 
with which you have entered into our under- 
taking. We have now no doubt of being able 
to produce a collection highly deserving of 
public attention, in all respects- 

I agree with you in thinking English verses, 
that have merit, very eligible, wherever new 
verses are necessary ; because the iMigiisn De- 
comes every year, more and more, the language 
of Scotland ; but if you mean that no English 
verses except those by Scottish authors, ought 
to be admitted, I am half inclined to ditier 
from you. I should consider it unpardonable 
to sacrifice one good song in the Scottish di- 
alect to make room for English verses ; but 
if we can select a few excellent ones suited to 
the unprovided or ill-provided airs, would it 
not be the very bigotry of literary patriotism 
to reject such, merely because the authors were 
boru south of the Tweed? Our sweet air « My 
Nannie O,' which in the collection is joined to 
the poorest stuff that Allan Ramsay ever wrote, 
beginning, -While some for pleasure pawn their 
health,' answers so finely to Dr Percy's beauti- 
iul scag, ' O Nanny wilt thou go with me, that 
one would think he wrote it on purpose tor the 
air. However, it is not at all our wish to 
confine you to English verses : you shall freely 
be allowed a sprinkling* of your native tongue, 
as you elegantly express it, aud, moreover, 
we will patiently wait your own time. One 
thing only 1 beg, which is, ihat however gay 
and sportive the muse may be, she may always 
be decent. Let her not write what beauty 
would blush to speak, nor wound ttiat charm- 
ing delicacy, which forms the most precious 
dowry of our daughters. I do not conceive the 
song to be the most proper vehicle tor witty 
aud brilliant conceits: simplicity, I Delieve, 
should be its prominent feature ; but in some 



iur songs, the writers have confounded 
simplicity with coarseness and vulgarity ; 
although, between the one and the other, as 
Dr Beattie well observes, there is as great a dif- 
ference as between a plain suit of clothes and a 
bundle of rags. The humorous ballad, or pa- 
thetic complaint, is best suited to our artless 
melodies ; and more interesting indeed in all 
songs than the most pointed wit, dazzling 
descriptions, and flowery fancies. 

With these trite observations, I send you 
eleven of the songs, for which it is my wish to 
substitute others of your writing. 1 shall soou 
iisniit the rest, and at the same time, a pro- 
spectus of the whole collection : and you may 
believe we will receive any hints that you am 
so kind as to give for improving the work, with 
the greatest pleasure and thankfulness. 

I remain, dear Sir. 



MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. 

MY DEAR SIR, 
Let me tell you, that you are too fastidious 
in your ideas of songs and ballads. I own that 
your criticisms are just ; the songs you specify 
in your list have all but one the faults you re- 
mark in them ; but who shall mend the mat- 
ter ? Who shall rise up aud say— Go to, I will 
make a better ? For instance, on reading over 
« The Lea-rig,' 1 immediately set about trying 
my hand on it, aud, after all, I could i 



When o'er the hill the eastern star, 

Tells bughtin lime is near, my. jo ; 
And owseu frae the furrow'd field, 

Return sae dowf aud weary O ; 
Down by the burn, where scented birks 

Wi' dew are hanging clear, my jo, 
I'll mett thee on the lea-rig, 

My ain kind dearie O. 

In mirkest glen at midnight hour, 

I'd rove and ne'er be eerie O, 
If through that glen I gaed to thee. 



* In the copy transmitted to Mr Thomson, 
instead of wild, was inserted wet. But in one 
of the manuscripts, probably written after- 
wards, wet was changed into wild, evidently 
a great improvement. The lovers might 
meet on the lea-rig, " although the night were 
ne'er so wild, " that is, although the summer- 
wind blew, the sky loured, and the thunder 
murmured ; such circumstances might render 
their mteting still more interesting. But if 
the night were actually wet, why should they 
meet on the lea-rig ? On a wet night, the ima- 
gination cannot contemplate their situation 
there with any complacency— TibuUus, and 
after him Hamxond, has conceived a happier 
situation for lovers on. a wet night. Probably 






I'd nest thee on the lea-rig, 
My ain kind dearie O. 

Your observation as to the aptitude of Dr 
Percy's ballad to the aii 'Nannie O,' is just. It 
is, besides, perhaps the most beautiful ballad 
i:i the English language. But let me remark 
to you, that in the sentiment and style of our 
Scottish airs, there is a pastoral simplicity, a 
something that one may call the Doric st\!e 
and dialect of vocal music, to which a dash ef 
our native tongue a:id manners is particularly, 
aay, peculiarly, apposite. For this reason, 
and, upon my honour, for this reason alone, I 
am of opinion (but as I told you before, my 
opinion ia vours, freely yours, to approve or 
I eject, as you please) that mj ballad of 'Nannie 
O' might perhaps do for one set of verseo to the 
:une. Now don't let it enter into your bead, 
:hat you are under any necessity of taking my 
verses. I have long ago made up my mind us 
to my own reputation in the business of author- 
ship ; and have nothing to be pleased or offend- 
ed at, in your adoption or rejection of my 
verses. Though you should reject one half of 
what I give sow, I shall be pleased with your 
adopting theVther half, and shall continue to 
uerve you with the same assiduity. 

In the printed copj of my ' Nannie O,' the 
name of the river is horridly prosaic. 1 v. HI 



-CORRESPONDENCE. 

ing of ardent passi 



257 



" Behind yon kill where Lugu 


r flows.*' 


Girvan is the name of the river 


that suits the 


idea of the stanza best, but Lug 


ar is the most 


agreeable modulation ol syllables 




I will soon give >ou a great ■ 
marks on this business ; but I 1 


«««? more re- 
ave just now 


In opportunity of conveying you 
Iree of postage, an expense that 


this scrawl, 

t is ill able to 


lay ; so, with my best cotnpliin* 
VI Ian, (Jcod be wi' ye, lie. 


Bis to honest 


Friday Night. 





Saturday Morning. 
As I find I have still an hour to spare this 
■Wrriing before my conveyance goes away, I 
.> rli give }ou « Na-uiie O' at length. (See p 

i our remarks on the * Ewebughts, Marion, ' 
Ire just; stiil it has obtained a place among 
»ur more classical Scottish songs ; and what 
with many beauties in its composition, and 
■lore prejudices in its favour, you will not hud 
it easy to supplant it. 

In my very early years, when T was thinking 
of going to the West Indies, I took the follow- 
ing farewell of a dear girl. It is quite trifling, 
ind has nothing of the merit of 'Ewe bughts ;' 
but it will fill up this page. You must know, 
that all my earlier love-songs were the breath- 



on, and though it might 
been easy in after-times to have gives 
them a polish, yet that polish, to me, whose 
they were, and who perhaps alone cared for 
them, would have defaced the legend of my 
heart, which was so faithfully inscribed ou 
them. Their uncouth simplicity was, as they 
say of wines, their race. 

Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary, 

And leave auld Scotia's shore ?. 
Will ye go the Indies, my Mary, 

Across la* Atlantic's roar ? 



sv/eet grows the lime and the 
And the apple on the pine : 

But a' the charms o' the ludie 
Can never equal thine. 


crar. 


fkae sw 
lhae 

And sae 
When 


orn by the Heavens to 
worn by the Heavens 

iforge^yTow^ 


myM 


plight 
And p 

rili-'it 
liefore 


me your faith, mv Mj 
ighlineyourlih-'wh, 
me your faith, my Ma 
i leave Scotia's Btran 


e'jnau 



Burns had i 
Scottish long 
.urally enoug 


l his mind the ve 
, in which wet and 
•i conjoined. 


rse of n 


n old 


"When my 
He's often 

Cast off the \ 
And gae to 


iloughman comes I 

vet, put on the dry, 
bed my deary. " 


ame a 


'en 



We hae plighted our troth, my Mary, 
In mutual affection to join, 

And curst be the cause that shall part u 
The hour and the moment o' time J* 



speak out your criticisms with equal frankness. 
iNiywish is, not to stand aloof, the uncomplj ing 
bigot of opiniatrcte, but cordially to join issue 
with you in the furtherance of the work. 



MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. 

November Stk, 1792. 
If you mean, my desr sir, that all the songs 
in your collection shail be poetry of the first 
merit, I am afraid you will lind more difficulty 
I in the undertaking than you are aware of. There 
j is a peculiar rhythmus in many of our airs and 
a necessity of adapt ; ng syllables to the empha- 
! sis, or what I would call the feature notes, of 
I the tune, that cramp the poet, and lay him un- 
i der almost insuperable difficulties, For in- 
j stance, in the a\r, • My wife's a wanton wee 
! thing, ' if a few 'ines, smooth and pretty, can 
j be adapted to it, it is all you can expect. The 
i following were made extempore to it ; and 
I though, on farther study, I might gi\e you 
something more profound, yet it might not suit 
the light-horse gallop of the air so well as this 
I random clink. 



* This song Mr Thomson has not adopted in 
his collection. It deserves, however, to be 
preserved. 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



MY WIFE'S A WINSOME WEE 
THING. 



She is a handsome nee thing, 
She is a bonnis wee tiling, 
This sweet wee wife o' mine. 

I never saw a fairer, 

I never lo'ed a dearer, 

And neist ray heart l'l! wear her, 

For fear iny jewel tine. 



The world's wrack we share o 
The wrastle and ike care o't ; 
AVi' her I'll blylhely bear it, 
And think ray lot divine. 



Ihavejnst been looking over the Collier's 
bonny Dochter, and if the following rhapsody, 
which I composed the other day, on a charm- 
ing Ayrshire girl, Miss , as she passed 

through this place to England, will suit your 
taste better than the Collier Lassie, fall on and 
welcome. 



saw ye bonnie Lesley, 
As she gaed o'er the border ? 

She's gane like Alexander, 

To spread her conquests farther. 

To see her is to love her, 
And love but her for ever ; 

For Nature made her what she is, 
And never made anither. 

Thou art a queen, fair Lesley, 
Thy subjects we, before thee : 

Thou' art divine, fair Lesley, 
The hears o' men adore thee. 

The Deil he could na scaith thee, 
Or aught that wad belang tb.ee ^ 

He'd look into thy bonnie face, 
And say, " I canna wrang thee. ' 

The Dowers aboon wit] lent thee ; 

Misfortune sha'ima steer thee ; 
Thou'rt like themselves sae lovelj, 

That iil they'll ne'er let near thee, 



i again, fair Lesley, 

arn to Caledonie ! 

\-e may brag «e liae a lass 



I have hitherto deferred the sublimer, more 
pathetic airs, until more leisure, as they will 
take, and deserve, a greater effort. However, 
they ^re all put into your hands, as cay into 
the" hands of the polteV, to make one vessel to 
bonour, and another to dishonour. Farewell, 



MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. 

HIGHLAND MARY. 

Tune— " Katherice Ogie. '" 

Ye banks, and braes, and streams around 

The cast:e o' Montgomery, 
Green be jour woods, and fair your flowers. 

Your w'aters never drumlie ! 
There simmer first unfauld her robes, 

And there the langest tarry ; 
For there I took the last fareweel 

0' ray sweet Highland Mary. 

How sweetly bloom 'd the gay, green birk, 

How rich the hawthorn's blossom ; 
As underneath the fragrant shade, 

I ciasp'd her to my bosom I 
The goiden hours, on angel wings, 

Flew o'er me and my dearie ; 
For dear to me as light and life, 

Was my sweet Highland Mary. 

Wi' mony a vow, and lock'd embrace, 

Our parting was fu' tender : 
And, pledging aft to meet again, 

We tore ourselves asunder : 
But Oh ! fell death's untimely frost, 

That nipt my flower sae early ! 
Now green's the sod and cauld's the clay, 

That wraps my Highland Mary 

pale, pale now, those rosy lips, 
I aft hae kiss'd sae fondly ; 

And closed fcr a\e, the sparkling glance, 

That dwelt on me sae kindly ! 
And mouldering now in silent dust, 

The heart that lo'ed me dearly! 
But still within my bosom's core, 

Shall live my Highland Mary. 

my deak six, 14,'ft November, 1792. 

1 agree with yoa, that the song, ' Katherine 
Ogie,' is very poor stuff, and unworthy, alto- 
gether unworthy, of so beautiful an air. I 
tried to meud it, but the awkward sound Ogie, 
recurring so often in the rhyi 



enip! i 



cing b 



othe] 



■egoing si.iig pleases myself; I think 
it is in my happiest manner; you will see at 
first glance :hat it suits the air. The subject 
of the song is one of the most interesting pas- 
sages of my youthful days ; and I own that I 
should be much flattered lo see the verses set 
to an air, which would iusure celebrity. Pen- 
haps after ali, 'tis the still glowing prejudice 
of my heart, that throws a boirowed lusira 
over the merits of the composition. 

I have partly taken your idea of * Auld Rob 
Morris.' I have adopted the two first verses, 
and am going on with the song on a new plan, 
which promises pretty well. I take up one or 
another, just as the bee of the moment buzzes 
in my bonnet lug ; and do you, eaus eeremonie, 
make what use you choose of the production*. 
Adieu, ic. 



BURNS. -CORRESPONDENCE. 



No. VII. 
MR THOMSON TO MR BURNS, 

DEAR 61R, Edinburgh, Nov. 1792. 

I was just going to write lo you, that on meet- 
ing with your Nannie,' I had fallen violently in 
love with her. I thank you, therefore, for 
sending the charming rustic to me in the drpss 
you wish her to appear in before the public. She 
does you great credit, and will soon be admitted 
into the best company. 

I regret that your song for the 'Lea-Rig, ' is 
so short ; the air is e:isy, sung soon, and very 
pleasing ; so that if the singer stops at the end 
of two stanzas, it is a pleasure lost ere it is 
well possessed. 

Although a dash of our native tongue and 
Planners is doubtless peculiarly congenial and 
appropriate to our melodies, yet I sha.l be able 
to present a considerable number rf the very- 
Flowers of English Song, well adapted to 
those melodies, which in England, at leas', will 
be the means of recommending them to still 
greater attention than they have procured ihere. 
But you will observe, my plan is, that every 
air shall, in the lirst place, have verses wholly 
by Scottish poets ; and that those of English 
writers shall follow as additional songs, for 
the choice of (he singer- 

VVhat you say of the • Ewe-bughts* is just ; I 
admire it, and never niennt lo supplant it. 
All I requested was, that you would iry your 
hand on some of the inferior stanzas, which are 
apparently 10 part of the original song; but 
this I do not urge, because the song is of suffi- 
eient length, though those inferior stanzas be 
omitted, as they will be by the singer of tasie. 
You must not think I expect all the songs to be 
of superlative merit ; that were an unreasonable 
expectation. 1 am sensible that no poet can 
sit down doggedly to pen verses and succeed 



,-L'U a 



aii r. 



I am highly pleased with your humorous and 
amorous rhapsody on 'Bonnie Leslie :' it is a 
thousand times better than the 'Collier's Las- 
sie:* ««The deil he could na scaiih thee," &c. 
is an eccentric and happy thought. Do you 
not think, however, that the names of such old 
heroes as Alexander, sound rather queer, un- 
less in pompous or mere burlesque verse! In- 
stead of the line, "And never made anither ;" 
I would humbiy suggest, " And ne'er made 
sic anither;" and I would fain have you sub- 
stitute some other line for " Return to Caledo- 
nie," in the last verse, because 1 think this al- 
teration in the orthography, and of the sound 
of Caledonia, disfigures the word, and renders 
it Hudibrastic. 

Of the other song, 'My wife's a winsome 
wee thing, ' I think the lirst eight lines are very 
good ; but I do not admire the other eight, be- 
cause four of them are bare repetitions of the 
first verses. I have been trying to spin a stan- 
za, but could make nothing better than the 
following ; do you mend it, or as Yorick did 
with the love-letter, whip it up inyourowa 
way. 

leeze me on my wee tiling, 

My bonnie blyihesouie wee thing ; 



Tho' warld's care we share o't, 
And may see meikle ruair o't, 
Wi' her I'll blythely bear it, 
And ne'er a word repine. 

You perceite, my dear sir, I avail myself 
of the liberty which you condescend to allow me 
by speaking freely what I think. Be assured, 
it is not lr.y disposition to pick out the faults 
of any poem or picture I see ; my (irst and 
chief object is to discover and be delighted with 
the beauties of the piece. If I sit down to 
examine critically, and at leisure, what perhaps 
you have written in haste, I may happen to ob- 
serve careless lines, the re-perusal of which 
might lead you to improve them. The wren 
will often see what has been overlooked by the 
eagle. 

I remain yours, faithfully, &c 

P. S. Your verses upon ' Highland Mary* 
are just come to hand ; they breathe the ge- 
nuine spirit of poetry, and, like the music, 
will last for ever. Such verses united to such 
an air, with the delicate harmony of Pleyel 
superaoJed, might form a treat worthy of 
being presented to Apollo himself. I have 
heard the sari story of your Mary : you always 
seem inspired when you write of her. 



No. VIII. 
MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. 

Dumfries, \st December, 17S2. 
Your alterations of my 'Nannie O' are perfectly 
right. So are those of ' My wife's a wanton 
wee thing.' Your alteration of the second 
stanza is a positive improvement. Now, my 
dear Sir, with the freedom which characterises 
our correspondence, I must not, cannot alter 
« Bonnie Lesley. ' You are right, the word 
' Alexander ' makes the line a little uncouth. 
But 1 think the thought is pretty. Of Alex, 
ander, beyond nil other heroes, it may Le said, 
in the sublime language of scripture, that "he 
went forth conquering and to conquer." 

" For nature made her what she is, 
And never made anither," (such a person as 
she is.) 

This is in my opinion more poetical than 
'< Ne'er made sic anither." However, it is 
immaterial : Wake it either way.* " Caledo- 
nie," I agree v ith you, is not so good a word 
as could be wished, though it is sanctioned in 
three or four instances by Allan Ramsay ; but 
I cannot help it. In short, that species of 
stanza is the must difficult that I have ever 
tried. 



The 



; Lea rij,' is as follows. (Where the 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



The hunter lo'es the morning sun, 

To rouse the mountain dear, my jo : 
At noon the fisher seeks the glen, 

Along the burn to steer, my jo ; 
Gie me the hour o' gloamin grey, 

tt mak's my heart sae cheery, O, 
To meet thee on the lea rig, 

My aiu kind dearie, O. 

I am interrupted. Yours, &e. 

No. IX. 
MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. 

AULD ROB MORXIS.* 

There's auld Rob Morris that wons in yon 

glen, 
He's the king o' guid fellows and wale o' auld 

He has gowd in his coffers, he has owsen and 

kine, 
And ae bonnte lassie, his darling and mine. 

She's fresh as the morning, the fairest in 

May ; 
She's sweet as the evening amang the new 

hay ; 
As blythe and as artless as the lambs on the 

And dear to my heart as the light to my e'e. 

But Oh! she's an heiress, auld Robin's a 

laird. 
And my daddie has nought but a cot-house and 

yard; 
A wooer like me manna hope to come speed, 
The wounds I must hide that will soon be my 



The day c> 



, but delight brings 



The night comes to me, but my rest it is gane 
I wander my lane like a night-iroub'.ed ghais 
And I sigh as my heart it wad burst in m 



DUNCAN GRAY. 

Duncan Gray cam here to woo, 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't- 

On blythe yule night when we were 
Ha, ha, the wooing o't, 

Maggie coast her head fu' nigh, 



LookM asklent and unco skeigh, 
Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh ; 

Ha, ha, the wooing o'f. 

Duncan fleech'd, and Duncan pray 'o 

Ha, ha, &c. 
Meg was deaf as Ailsa craig.f 

Ha, ha, &c. 
Duncan sigh'd baitb out and in, 
Grat his een bailh bleer't and blin', 
Spak o' iowpin o'er a linn ; 

Ha, ha, ic. 

Time and chance are but a tide, 

Ha, ha, &c. 
Slighled love is sair to bide, 

Ha, ha, &c. 
Shall I, like a fool, quoth he, 
For a haughty hizzie die '( 
She may gae to — France for rje '. 

Ha, ha, cVe. 

How it comes let doctors tell, 
Ha, ha, &c. 

Meg grew sick as he grew heal. 

Ha, ha, &c. 
Something in her bosom wrings, 
For relief a sigh she brings ; 
ii-nd Ch, her een they speuk sic thing' 

Ha, ha, &c. 



Dunca 


n wa- a 


lad o' grace, 




Ha 


ha, ccc. 




Maggi 


i's was 


1 piteous cas 


e, 




Ha 


ha, &c. 




Dunca 


n could 




ath, 


Svvelli 


ng pity 


moor'd his 


wrath ; 


Now t 


,>ey'rec 


c,u*e and ca 


ity baith. 



Ha, ha, the n 

iih December, 1792. 
The foregoing I submit, my dear sir, to your 
better judgment. Acquit them or condemn 
them as seemeth good in your sight. Duncan 
Gray is that kind of light-horse gallop of n» 
air which precludes sentiment. The ludicrous 
is its ruling feature. 



No. X. 

MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON, 

SONG. 

Tune — «• I had a horse. " 

O pooriith cnu'd end restless love, 
Ye wreck my peace between ve ; 

Yet poortilh a' I could forgive," 
An' 'twere na' for my Jeauie. 

O why should fate sic pleasure hare, 
Life's dearest bands untwining ? 

Or why sae sweet a flower as love, 
Depend on fortune's shining ? 



I A well-known rock in the frith of Clyde. 

t This has nothing in common with the old 

licentious ballad of Duncan Gray, but the first 

line and part of the third. The rest is wholly 

| original. 




1 


\ i 







DURNS. — CORRESPONDENCE. 



This warld's wealth wher 
It's pride and a' the la' 

Fie, tie, o" Billy coward i 

That he should be the s 

O v.hy, 

Hereen sae bonnie blue b 



How she 
She talk 


repays niy^o.skri ; 

o' rank and fashion. 
O why, &c 


wha can 
And sic 
wha can 
Aad sae 


prudence thinlc upon, 
i lassie by him ? 

prudence think upon, 
iu love as I urn ? 
why, &c 



How blest the humble collar s fate '.* 

Ke woces his simple dearie i 
The silly bogles wealth and stale 

O why should fate sic pleasure have 
Life's dearest bands untwining! 

Or why sae sweet a flower as love, 
Depend on Fortune's shining ? 



GALLA WATER. 

There's braw, braw lads on Yarrow braes, 
That wander thro* the blooming heathej 

But Yarrow braes, nor Ettrick shaws, 
.Can match, the lads o' Galla water. 

But there is ane, a eecret ane, 
Aboon them a' I loe him better ; 

And I'll be his, and he'll be mine, 
The bonnie lad o' Galla Water. 

Altho' his daddie was nae laird. 
And tho' I hae na meikle tocher ; 

Yet rich in kindness, truest love, 
We'll tent our flocks by Galla Water. 



January, 1793. 

Many returns of the season to you, my dear 
sir. How comes on jour publication? will 
these two foregoing be of any service to you ? 
1 should like to know what songs you print to 
each tune, besides the verses to which it is set. 
In short, I wouid wish to give you my opinion 
on all the poetry you publish, You know, it 
is my trade ; and a man in the way of his trade 
may suggest useful hints, that fscape men of 
much superior parts and endowments in other 

If you meet with my dear, and mucb-valued 
C. greet him in my name, with the compli- 

Yours, &c. 



No. XI. 

MR THOMSON TO MR BURNS. 

Edinburgh, Jan-uay, 20Ui, 1793. 

You make me happy, my dear sir, and thou- 
sands will be happy to see the charming songs 
you have sent me. Many merry returns of 
the season to you, and may you long continue 
among the sons and daughters of Caledonia, to 
delight them, and to honour yourself. 

The four last songs with which you favoured 
me, for * Auld Rob Morris, Duncan Gray, 
Galla Water,' and « Cauld Kail,' are admira- 
ble. Duncan is indeed a lad of grace, and his 
humour will endear him to every body. 

The distracted lover in ' Auld Rob,' and the 
happy shepherdess in « Galla Water,' exhibit 
an (Xcellent contrast ; they speak from geuuine 
foeiing, and powerfully touch the heart. 

The number of songs which I had originally 
in view was limited, but I now resolve to in- 
clude everv Scotch air and song worth sing- 
ing ; leaving none behind but meie gleanings, 
to which the publishers of ommgaiherum are 
welcome. I would rather be the editor of a 
collection from which nothing could be taken 
away, than of one to which nothing could be 
added. We intend presenting the subscribers 
with two beautiful stroke engravings; the one 
characteristic of the plaintive, aad the other of 
the lively songs ; and I have Dr iieattie's pro- 
mise of an essay upon the subject of our na- 
tional music, if his health will permit him to 
write it. As a number of our songs have 
doubtless been called forth by particular events, 
or by the charms of peerless damsels, there 
must be many curious anecdotes relating to 
them. 

The late Mr T\ tier of Woodbouselee, I be- 
lieve, knew more of this than any body, for be 
joined to the pursuits of an antiquary, a taste 
for poetry, besides being a man of the world, 
and possessing an enthusiasm for music beyond 
most of his contemporaries. He was quite 
pleased with this plan of mine, for I may say, 
it has been solely managed by me, and we had 
several long conversations about it, when it 
was in embryo. If I could simply mention 
the name of the heroine of each song, and the 



'.s of the season. 



information of this sort, as well with regard to 
your own songs, as the old ones '( 

To all the favourite songs of the plaintive or 
pastoral kind, will be joined the delicate ac- 
companiments, &c. of Pleyel. To those of 
the comic or humorous class, I think accom- 
paniments scarcely necessary ; they are chiefly 
luted fur tht conviviality of" the festive board, 
and a tuneful voice, with a proper delivery of 
the words, renders them perfect. Neverthe- 
less, to these I propose adding bass accompani- 
ments, because then they are iitted either for 
singing, or for instrumental performance, when 
there happens " " 



l the 



" ! do, 



ight trusty friend Mr Clarke to set 
uass to these, which he assures me he will 

than he ever bestowed on any thing of 
kind, But for this last class of airs, I 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



•31 not attempt to find i 



: than one set of 

That eccentric bard Peter Pindar, has start- 
ed I know not how many difficulties, about 
writing for the airs I sent to him, because of 
tiie peculiarity of their measure, and the tram- 
mels they impose ou his nyiag Pegasus. I 
subjoin for your perusal the only one I have 
yet got from him, being for the fine air ' Lord 
Gregory.' The Scots verses printed with that 
air. are taken from the middle of an old ballad, 
called, 'The lass of Lochrojan,' which I do 
rot admire. I have set down the air therefore 
a= a creditor of yours. Many of the Jacobite 
songs are replece with wit ana humour ; might 



POSTSCRIPT. 
FROM THE HON. A. ERSK1NE. 



ingly pataetic, and ' Duncan 



s hear of you from our mutual friend 
C. who is a most excellent fellow, and posses- 
ses, above all men I know, the charm of a 
most obliging disposition. You kindly pro- 
mised me, about a year ago, a collection of 
your unpublished productions, religious and 
amorous ; I know from experience how irksome 
it is to copy. If you win ge; anj trusty per- 
son in Dumfries to write t'uem over fair, I will 
give Peter Hill whatever money he asks for 
his trouble; and I certainly shall not betray 
your confidence. 

I am your hearty admirer, 
ANDREW ERSKLNE. 



.YR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. 

26th Jcmua'y, 1793. 
I approve greatly, my dear sir, of your plans. 
Dr Beattie's essay will of itself be a treasure- 
Oa my par*, I mean to draw up an appendix 
to the' Doctor's essay, containing m_. stoc«. of 
anecdotes, ic of our t-cots s ^igs. All the 
late Mr Tytler's anecdotes I have by me, taken 
down in the course of my acquaintance with 
bim from his own mouth. I am such an en- 
thusiast, that in the coarse of my several pere- 
grinations through Scotland, I made a pilgrim- 
age to the individual spot from which every 
song :ook its rise, ' Locaaber, ' and the « Braes 
of Ballenden,' excepted. So far as tiie local- 
ity, either frcm the title of the air, or the tenor 
oflhe song, ccu'.d be ascertained, I have pa : d 
my devotions at the particular shri: e of every 
Scottish muse. 

I do not doubt but yon might make a very 
valuable collection of Jacobite songs — bui 
would it give no offence ': In the meantime, 
.Link that some of : 



larlv 'The Sow's tail to Geordie,* as an air, 
with other words, might be well worth a place 
in your collection of lively songs ? 

If it were possible to procure songs of merit, 
it would be proper to have one set of Scots 
words to every air, and that the set of words 
to which the notes ought to be set. There is 
a nairete, a pastoral simplicity, in a slight in- 
termixture of Scots words aud phraseology, 
which is more in unison (at least to my taste, 
aoci I wili add, to every genu::.; 
taste), with the simple pathos, or rustic 
;prightliness of our i 



. . - 



vkatei 



The very name of Peter Pindar, is an ac- 
quisition to your work. His 'Gregory' is 
beautiful. 1 have tried to give you a set of 
stanzas in Scots, on the same subject, which 
are at your service. Not that I intend to enter 
Peter; that would be presump- 
tion indeed. My song, though much inferior 
in poetic merit, has I think more of the ballad 
simplicity in it. 



LORD GREGORY. 

mirk, mirk is this midnight hour* 

And loud the tempests roar ; 
A waeful wanderer seeks thy tower. 

Lord Gregory ope thy door. 

An exile frae her father's ha*, 

And a* for loving thee ; 
At least some pity on me shaw, 

If love it may na be. 

Lord Gresorv, mind'st thou not ihe grcve, 

By bonnie "irwine side, 
Where irst I owa'u that Tirglu love 

I lang, lang had denied. 

How aften didst thou pledge and tow. 

Thou wad for aye be mine ; 
And my fond heart itsel sae true, 

It ne'er mistrusted thine. 

Hard is thy heart, Lord Gregory, 

And flinty is thy breast ; 
Thou dart of Heave;-, that flashest by, 

O wilt thou give me rest ! 

Ye mastering thunders from above. 
■g rid ii see! 



* The song of Dr Walcott on the sann 
ject is as follows : 

Ah ope. Lord Gregory, thy door, 

A miduirht wanderer sighs ; 
Hard rush the rains, the tempests roar. 

And ligbtuings cleave the skies. 

Who carries wili woe at this drear night 

A pilgrim of the gloom, 
If she whose love did once delight, 

My cot shiil yield her room. 

Alas ! thon heard'st a pilgrim mnmm, 
Thai on?-; ■•• f - - 



My most respectful compliments 
nourable gentleman who favoured me «■>■• ~ 
postscript ill your last. He shall hear from 

uje and his MSS. soon. 



No. XIII. 

MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. 

20 Ih March, 179 

MARY MORISON. 

Tune— <« Bide ye yet." 

O Mary, at thy window be, 

It is the wisli'd, the trysted hour ; 

Those smiles and glances let me see, 
That make the miser's treasure poor; 

How blythely wad I bide the statue. 



estreeu when to the trembling string, 
The dance gaed thro' the lighted ha', 
o thee my fancy took it. wing. 



Mary, canst thou wreck his peace, 

Wha for thv sake wad gladly die ! 
Or canst thou break tbai heart of Ins 

Wbase onlv faut is loving thee? 
If love for love thou wilt na gie, 

At leatt be pity to me shown ; 
A thought ungentle .canna he 

The thought o' Mary Morison. 



MV DEAR SIR, 

The song prefixed is one of ruy juve 
works. I leave it iu your hands. I do 
think it very remarkable, either for its me; 
or demerits. It is impossible (at least 1 te 
60 in my stinted powers) to be always or.gi 



BURNS.- CORRESPONDENCE. 

to the 1 



2 S3 






tty. 



W hat is become of the li 
I shall be out of all temper with y 
I have always looked on myself ; 
of indolent correspondents, and v 
accordingly ; and I will not, cam 
6hi|i from ycu, or any body else. 



of;, ot 



But should'st thou not poor Marian know, 

I'll turn my feet and part ; 
And think the storms that round me blow, 

Far kinder than thy heart. 

It is but doing justice to Dr Walcott to men- 
tion, that his song is the original. Mr Burns 
aaw it, liked it, and immediately v. rote the 
other on the same subject, which is derived 
(torn an old Scottish ballad of uncertain origin. 



No. XIV. 
MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. 

March, 1793. 
WANDERING WILLIE. 

Here awa, there awa, wandering Willie, 
Now tired with wandering, haudawa name. 

Come to my bosom my ae only dearie. 

And tell me thou bring'st me my Willie the 

Loud blew tbe cauld Winter winds at our part- 
It was nae the blast brought the tear in my 

Now welcome the simmer, and welcome my 
Willie, 
The simmer to nature, my Willie to me. 

Ye hurricanes rest iu the cave o' your slum 

how your wild horrors a lo\er alarms : 
Awaken y"e breezes, row gently ye billows, 
And waft my dear laddie auce ruaur to iny 



I leave it to you, my dear sir, to determine 
whether the above, or the old «« Through the 
laug Muir " be the best. 



No. XV. 

MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. 

OPEN THE DOOR TO ME, OH 

WITH ALTERATIONS. 

Oh open the door, some pity to show 
Oh, open the door to me, Oh. * 

Tho' thou hast teen false, I'll ever prove ti 
Oh, open the door to me Oh. 

Cauld is the blast upon mv pale cheek, 
But caulder thy love for me, Oh : 

The frost that freezes the life at my heart. 
Is nought to my pains frae thee. Oh. 



i setting behind the white 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



She has open'd the door, she hae open'd h 

She sees his pale corse on the plain, Oh : 
Wy true love! she cried, and sank down by h 



productions of your muse : your Lord Gregary, 
in my estimation, is more interesting than 
Peter's, beautiful as his is ! Your • Here Awa 
Willie' must undergo some alterations to suit 
the air. Mr Erskine and i have been conning 
it over: he will suggest w 
make thera a fit match.* 



s necessary to 



> WANDERING WILLIE. 



No. XVI. 

MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. 

JESSIE. 

Tune — «« Bonnie Dundee. " 

True hearted was he, the sad swain o' t!: 
Yarrow. 

e maids on the banks o' tt 

» the Nuh's windin 



And fair ai 
Ayr, 
But by the sweet s 



Are lovers as faithful, and maidens as fair ; 
To equal young Jessie, 6eek Scotland all over; 

To equal young Jessie, jou seek it in vain, 
Grace, beauty, and elegance, fetter her lover, 

And maidenly modesty fixes the chain. 



s the r 



e in the gay, dewy n 



'i ell 



l, there awa, wandering Willie, 
wa, there awa, haud awa hime ; 
my bo<om my ain only dearie, 
te thou bring'st n;e ray Willie 



ih* 



Winter-winds blew loud andcauld at our part- 
Fears for ray Wiliie brought tears in my 

Welcome now simmer, and welcome my 
Willie, 
As simmer to nature, so Willie to me 

lest, ye wild storms, in the cave o' your slura- 

TTow your dread howling a lover alarms ! 
:iow soft, ye breezes! roll swiftly ye billows! 
And waft my dear laddie anee mair to my 



Enthron'd in her een he delivers his 1; 

And still to her charms she alone is a str: 

Her modest demeanor's the jewel of a 



ih, if he's faithless and minds na his 
jw still between us, thou dark-heaving 



No. XVIL 
MR THOMSON TO MR BURNS. 

April, 1793. 



The last editio 



e awa, there 
e to my boso 



Edinbur 
I will not recognise the 
•« the prince of indolent 

if the adjective were taken awa\, I think the I Tel! n 
title would then fit you exactly. It gives me I 
pleasure to find you can famish anecdotes with | Winter winds bi 
respect to most of the songs : these will be a ins. 

literary curiosity. Fears i 

"' it of the son??, which Welcoi 






my Willie the sams, 

loud and cauld at our part. 

Willie brought l< 



1 believe will be found 
have put down the first iiu 
songs, which I propu-e givn 
the Scottish verses. If any o I 
better adapted to (he charade 
mention thrm, when \o.i rave 
strictures upon every thing el: 



of a' 






eF.iiirlish 



auditi 






Tees 

Rest,; 



Wiliie 



of the a 

ur „«> with you, 
a relating to thi 

i number of tin 
and accompaui- | 

here, | But oh 



o nature, 
vild storms, in 



and welcome my 
i Wiliie to me. 



How your dread howling a 
Waken ye breezes, row ge 
And waft ray dear laddie 



wents added to then 
that I might serve up some cf them !c _ 

your own verses, by way of dessert after din- ' Flow still betw 
ner. There is so much delightful fancy in the | May I never se< 
symphonies, and such a delicate simplicity in ] But, dying, be 
the accompaniments : they are indeed beyond 
ail praise. | Several of the alterai'ons seem to be of little 

S am very much pleased with the several last j importance in themselves, and weie adopUd* 



s faithless, and minds na his 

?en us thou wide-roaring main : 
I it, may I never trow it, 
ieve that my Willie's my aia. 



BURNS. — CORRESPONDENCE. 



The gentleman I have mentioned, whose 
fine ta=te you are no stranger to, is so well 
pleased bo'th with the musical and poetical 
part of our work, that he has volunteered his 
os.-istance, and has already written four songs 
for it, which, by his own desire, I send for 
jour perusaL 



No. XVIII. 

MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. 

WHEN WILD WAR'S DEADLY BLAST 

WAS BLAWN. 



Air— 



The Mill, Mill O.' 
's deadly blast was b 
:et babe fatherless, 



When wild t 

And gentle 
Wi' uiony a 

And mony 
I left the lines and tented field, 

Where lang I'd been a lodge 
My humble knapsack a' my we 

A poor and honest sodger. 









ile 



A leal light heart 

My hand unsta 
And for fair Scotia, hame ag 

I cheery on did wander. 
I thought upon the banks o' 

I thought upon my Nancy 
I thought upon the witching 

Thai caught my youthful fancy 

At length I reach'd the hounie glen. 

Where early 1 fe I sported; 
I pas->'d the mill and trysting thorn, 

\\ here Nancy aft 1 courted : 
Wha spied I but my ai n dear maid, 

Down by her mother's dwelling ! 
And turn'd liie round to hide the flood 

That in my een was swelling. 



Wi* alter'd 


oice quoth T, sweet lass 


Sweet as j 


on hawthorn's blossom 


0! happv. 


lappy may he be, 


That's de 


rest to thy bosom : 


My purse is 


igbt, I've far to gang, 



?ad be thy lodge 
I've served my king and country lang, 
Take pity on a sodger. 



it may be presumed, for the sake of suiting the 
words better to the music. The Homeric 
epithet for the sea, dark-heav'ng, suggested 
by Mr Erskine, is in itself more beautiful, as 
well perhaps as more sublime than 



which 1 
only applicable to a 



led ; but a 



veil left 
element not so well adapted 



of ttii 

its surface after 
a. p ; cture of that 

the ideas of eter- 
nal separation, which the fair 
posed to imprecate. From tb 
of Here awa Willie, ' Burn 
nothing but the second line and part of the 
first. The superior excellence of '.his beautiful 
poem will, it is hoped, justify the different 



Sae wistfully she gazed on me. 
And lovelier was than ever: 

Quo' she, a sedger mice 1 lo'ed ; 
F.rget him shall I never: 

Our humble cot, and hauielv fare, 
Ye freely shall partake it," 

That gallant badge, the dear ccckade, 



Ye'r 



welcome for the s; 



She gazed— she redden'd like a rose — 

Syne pale like onv lily ; 
She sank within my arms, and cried. 

Art thou my ain dear Willie ? 
By Him who made yon sun and sky— 

By whom true love's regarded, 
I am the man ; and thus may still 

True lovers be rewarded. 

The wars are o'er, and I'm come hame, 

And lind thee still true hearted ; 
Tho' poor in gear, we're rich in love, 

And mair we'se ne'er be parted. 
Quo' she, ray trrandsire left me gowd, 

A raailin plenish'd fairly ; 
And come, uiy faithful sodger lad, 

Thou'rt welcome to it dearly ! 



For gold t 


be mere 


jant pi 


y.:c) 


s the 


The far 


ner plot 


ghs th 


.: inn 


not ; 


But glory 


is the st 




priz 




The sod 




alth is 


honour ; 


Tie b-.ave 


poor so 


Iger ne 


'erei 


es P i = 


Nor coo 


it him 








Remembe 


he'sh 


5 CO-111 


ry-s 


stay 


Iu day i 


nd hour of dai 







MEG O' THE MILL. 



O ken ye what M T eg o' the Mill has gotten, 
An ken ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten ? 
She has gotten a coof wi' a claut o' siller, 
And broken the heart o' the barley Miller. 

The Miller was strapping the Miller wa-= 

A heart like a lord and a hue like a iady -, 
The laird was a widd.efu', bleer-ee't knurl : 
She's left the gu:d iellow and taen the churl. 



The Miller he hecht her 
The La id did address 



i heart leal and lov» 



And wae 


on the love that's fix'd en a mailin 1 


A tocher* 


s nae word in a true lover's parle. 


But, giet 


le my love, and a lig for the w arid. 



riginal ! 



No. XIX. 

MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. 



editions of it v.Uic 



: l.a 



266 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



You cannot imagine tow much this business 
of composing for your publication has added to 
my enjoyments, What with my early attach- 
ment to ballads, your book, &c. ballad-making 
is now as completely my hobby-horse, as ever 
fortification was Uncle Toby"'s ; so I'll e'en 
canter it awav till I come to the limit of my 
race, (God grant that I may take the right 
side of the winning post !) and then cheerfully 
looking back on the honest folks with whom I 
have been happy, I shall say, or sing, c Sae 
merry as we a' hae been,' and raising my last 
looks to the whole human race, the last words 
of the voice of Coila* shall be • Good night 
and joy be wi' you a' ! ' So much for my last 
words ; now for a few present remarks as they 
have occurred at random on looking over your 
list. 

The first lines of 'The last time I cameo'er the 
moor,' and several other lines in it, are beau- 
my opinion— pardon n 



shade 



the 



rthv of 



tir. I shall 
• For ever, Fortune, wilt thou prove,' is a 
charming song ; but * Logon burn and Logan 
braes,' are sweetly susceptible of rural ima- 
gery : I'll try that likewise, and if I succeed, 
the other song may class among the English 
ones. I remember the two last lines of a 
verse in some of the old songs of * Logan 
Water,' (for I know a good many different 
ones) which I think pretty : 



' My Patie 
mind is neve! 
indeed. 



This is surely far unworthy of Romsay, or 
your book. My song, * Rigs of Barley,' to 
the same tune, does not altogether please me, 
but if I can mend it, and thresh a few loose 
sentiments out of it. I will submit it to your 
consideration. < The Lass o' Patie's Mill ' is 
one of Ramsaj 's best songs ; but there is one 
loose sentiment in it, which my much-valued 
friend, i\Jr Erskine, will take into his critical 
consideration. In Sir J. Sinclair's Statistical 
volumes are two claims, one, I think, from 
Aberdeenshire, and the other from Ayrshire, 
for the honour of this song. The following 
anecdote, whicli I had from the present Sir 
William Cunningham, of Roberliand, who 
had it of tl e late John, Eail of Loudon, I 



:ueh z 



s belie 



Allan Ramsay was residing at Loudon Cas- 
tle with the then Earl, father to Earl John ; 
and one forenoon, riding, or walking out to- 
gether, his Lordship and Allan passed a sweet, 
romantic spot, on Irwine water, still called 
'- Patie's Mill,' where a bonnie lass tvas • tedd- 



calls hit 



self the 



: Voi 



Colla,' in imitation of Ossian, who denomi- 
nates himself the • Voice of Cona.' « Sae merry 
as we a' hae been,' and ' Good night and joy 
oe wi' you a',' are the names of two Scottish 
l|i»es. " 



ing hay, bareheaded, on the green.' My Lord 
observed to Allan, that it would be a fine theroo 
for a song. Ramsay took the hint, and ling- 
ering behind, he composed the first sketch of it, 
which he produced at dinner. 

One day I heard Mary say,' is a fine song ; 






alter the 



' Adr 


nis,' Wa 


there ev 


r such banns pub- 


liiheC 


, as a purn 


oseofmar 


riage between 'Ado- 


nis a 


id Mary? 


I agTee 


with you that my 


song, 


• There's n 


ought but 


:are on every hand, * 






« Poort 



LUlu.' 



The 



ill O, ' though ex- 
cellent, is, ^>n account of delicacy, inadmis- 
sible ; still I like the title, and think a Scottish 
song would suit the notes best ; and let your 
chosen son?, which is very pretty, follow, as 
an English set. « The Banks of the Dee' is, 
you know, literally Langolee to slow time. 
The song is well enough, but has some falsa 
imagery in it, for instance, 

" And sweetly the nightingale sung from the 



In the fint place, the nightingale sings in a 
low bush, but never from a tree ; and in the 
second place, there never was a nightingale 
seen or heard on the banks of the Dee, or on 
the banks of any other river in Scotland. 
Exotic rural imagery is always comparatively 
flat. If I could hit on another stanza equal 
to « The small birds rejoice,' &c. I do mjsdf 
honestly avow that I think it a superior song.* 
' John Anderson my jo '—the song to this tune 
iu Johnston's Museum, is my composition, and 
I think it not my worst: If" it suit you, take 
it sud welcome. Your collection of sentimen- 
tal and pathetic songs, is, in my opinion, very 
complete ; but not so your comic ones. Where 
are « Tullocbgorum, Lumps o' puddiu, Tibbie 
Fowler,' and several others, which, in my 
humble judgment, are well worthy of preser- 
vation. There is also one sentimental song of 
mine in the Museum, which never was known 
out of the immediate neighbourhood, until I 
got it taken down from a country girl's singing. 
It is called « Craigiefaurn Wood ;' and in the 
opinion of Mr Clarke, is one of our sweetest 
Scottish songs. He is quite an enthusiast 
about it ; and I would take his taste in Scot- 
tish music against the taste of most coimois- 

You are quite right in inserting the last five 
in your list, though they are certainly Irish. 
« Shepherds I have lost my love,' is to me a 
heavenly air — what would you think of a set of 
Scottish verses to it ? I have made one to it a 

good while ago, which I think 

. . . . but in its original state is not quite 
a lady's song. I inclose an altered, not 
amended copy for you, if you choose to set the 
tune to it, aiid let the Irish verses follow. (• 



* It will be found in the course of this cor- 
respondence, that the Bard produced a second 
stanza of 'The Chevalier's Lament,' (to which 
he here alludes) worthy of the first. 

T Mr Thomson, it appears, did not appro'* 
of this song, even in its altered state. It does 
not appear in the correspondence : but is pm. 
bably one to be found in his MSS. begin. 



BURNS. —CORRESPONDENCE. 



2fi7 



Let me know just h 



are all pretty, but his 

Yours, &c. 
s you like these random 



No. XX. 
MR THOMSON TO MR BURNS. 

Edinburgh, April, 1793 
I rejoice to find, my dear sir, that ball 
making continues to be your hobby horse. ; 
Great pity 'twould be were it otherwise. I 
hope you will amble it away for many a year 
and " witch the world with your horseman- i 
ship. " 

I know there are a good many lively songs 
of merit that 1 have not put down in the list 
seut you g but I have them all in rav eye. 
• My Patie is a lover gay,' though a litt'ls un- ! 
equal, is a natural and very pleasing song, and 
I humbly think we ought not to displace oi ' 
ter it except the last stanza.* 



No. XXL 
MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. 
April, 1793. 
I have yours, my dear sir, this moment, 
shall answer it and your former letter, in i 
desultory way of saying whatever comes u 
per most. 

The business of many of our tunes wanti 
at the beginning what fiddlers call a siarti 
note, is often a rub to us poor rhymers. 



My song, ' Here awa there awa, ' as n 
by Mr Erskine, I entirely approve of, s 
turn you.f 



*• Yestreen I got a pint of wine, 
A place where body saw na : 

Yestreen lay on this tr-aet of mine, 
The gowden locks of Anna." 

It is highly characteristic of our Bard, but 
the strain of sentiment does not correspoud 
with the air, to which he proposes it should be 
allied. 

* The original letter from Mr Thomson con- 
tains many observations on the Scottish songs, 
and on the manner of adapting the words to 
the music, which at his desire, are suppressed. 
The subsequent letleT of Mr Burns refers to se- 
veral of these observations. 
• •J The reader has already seen that Burns did 



Give me leave to criticise your ta=te in the 
only thing in which it is in my opinion repre- 
hensible. You know I ought to know some- 
thing of my own trade. Of pathos, sentiment, 
and point, you are a complete judge ; but there 
is a quality more necessary than either in a song, 
and which is the very essence of a ballad, I 
mean simplicity ; now, if I mistake not, this 
last feature you are a little apt to sacrifice to 
the foregoing. 

Kamsay, as every other poet, has not been 
always equally happy in his pieces ; still I can- 
not approve of taking such liberties with an 
author us Mr W. proposes doing with ' The 
la^t time I came o'er the Moor.' Let a poe', if he 
chooses, take up the idea of another, and work 
it into a piece of his own ; but to mangle the 
works of the poor bard whose tuneful tongue 
is now mute for ever, in the dark and narrow 
house — by Heaven 'twould be sacrilege! I 
grant that Mr TV's version is an improve- 
ment ; but I know Mr W« well, and esteem 
him much ; let him amend the song as the 
Highlander mended his gun ;— he gave it 
a new stock, and a new lock, and a new 
ban el. 



spoiling the whole. On< 
o' Pa'ie's Mill,' must t 



be left out ; the senp- 
will be nothing worse for it. I am not sure if 
we can take the same liberty with ' Corn Rig3 
are bonnie. ' Perhaps it might want the last 
stanza and be the better for i . ' Cauld Rail 
in Aberdeen' you must leave with me yti a 
while. I have vowed to have a song to that 
air, on the lady whom I attempted to celebrate 
in the verses, ' Poortith cauld and restless 
Love. ' At any rate, my other song, ' Green 
grow the rashes,' will never suit. That song 
Scotland under the old title, and 
to the merry old tune of that name; which of 
course would mar the progress of your song to 
celebrity. Your book w ill be the standard of 
Scots songs for the future ; let this idea ever 
keep your judgment on the alarm. 

I send a song on a celebrated toast in this 
country to suit ' Bonnie Dundee, ' 1 send you 
also a ballad to the ' Mill, mill O. 'i 

< The last time I came o'er the Moor,' I 
would fain attempt to make a Scots song for, 
and let Ramsays be the English set. You 
shall hear from me soon. When you go to 
London on this business, can ycu come by 
Dumfries? 1 have suU several MS. Scots airs 
by me which 1 have picked up, mostly from the 
singing of country lasses. They please me 
vastly ; but your learned lugs would perhaps 
be displeased with the very feature for which 
1 like them. I call their, simple; you would 
pronounce them silly. Do you know a fine air 
called 'Jackie Hume's Lament?' 1 have a 
song of conquerable merit to that air. I'll 
enclose you both the song and tune, as I had 



not finally adopt all of .Mr Erskine's altera- 

£ The song to thelnne of ' Bomie Dundee 
is that in No. XVI. The ballad to tbe • Mill 
mill U, is that beginning, 

" When wild wars deadly blast was blinrn. '» 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



tbein ready to send to Johnson's Museum. * ] 
send jou likewise to me a teautiful little air, 
which I had taken down from vica roee.f 



■y, perhaps, depends a great part cf 



mr burns to mr Thomson. 

April, 1793. 
T^—" The last time I came o'er the moor. 

Farewell thou stream that winding flows 

Around Maria's dwelling I 
Ah cruel rcem'ry ! spare the threes 

bosom swelling : 
Condemn 'd to crag a hopeless chain, 

Aad still ia secret languish ; 
To feel a tire in ev-. 

Yet dare not speak my ar.guLh. 



The wretch of love, unseen, unknown, 

I fain my crime would cover ; 
"... itrsl ._--;.. :ne unvveeiiug groaa 

B&gag the hopeless lov-r. 
1 kaow my doom must be despair, 

Thou wilt nor canst reiie\e ine j 
But oh, Maria, hear one prayer, 

For pitj "s sake forgive me. 

The mnsic of thy tongue I heard, 

Nor wist while it enslaved me ; 
I saw thine eves vet nothing fear '4, 

'Tdl fears no more had saved me. 
The unwary sa lor thus aghast, 

The wheeling torrent v ewing ; 
'Mid circling horrors yields at iast 

To overwhelming ruin. 

51V DEAR SIR, 

lhadscar.r : into the post- 

office, when 1 took up "the sif.ject of « The last 
time I came o'er the Moor,' and ere I slept 
drew the outlines of the foregoing. How far I 
have succeeded, I leave on this, as on every 
other occasion, to you to decide. I own my 
vanity is flattered, when you give my songs "a 
place iu your elegant and superb work ; bat to 
be ofserv.ee to the work is my first wish- As 
I have often told you, I do not in a single in- 
stance wish you, cut of compliment tome, to in- 
sert any thing of mine. One him let me give 
you — whatever Mr PTejel r'oes, let him not al- 
ter one icta of the original Scottish airs ; I 
mean, in the song department; but let our 
national music preserve i s native features. 
They are, I own, frequently wild and irreduc- 
ible to the mere modern rules ; but on '.hat very 



* The song here mentioned is that given in 
No. XVIII. " ' Oten ye what yiez o* the mill 
hisgotteu.' This song is surety Mr Burns's 
own writing, tnough he does not generally 
irsse his own songs so much. — Xte by Mr 

t The air here mentioned is that for which 
he wrote I u 
laaadg p. 203. 



No. lain. 

MR THOMSON TO MR BURNS. 

Edinburgh, S6Lh April, 1793. 
I heartily thank yo.i, my dear sir, for your last 
two letters, and the songs which accompanied 
tbem. I am always both instructed and en- 
tertained by your observations ; and the frank- 
ness with which you speak cut your mind, is 
to me highly agreeable. It is very possible I 
may not' have the true idea of simplicity in 
composition. I confess there are several songs 
of Aiian Ramsay's for example, that I think 
silly enough, which another perscn more con- 
versant than I have be°n with country pecple, 
would perhaps call simple and ratural. But 
the lowest scenes of simple nature will not 
please generally, if copied precisely as they 
et, like :he paiuter, must select 
what wili form an p.greeatle as well as a natu- 
ral picture. On this subject it were easy to 
. ; = | but at present suffice it to say, that I 
consider simplicity, r'ghtly understood, as a 
most essential quality in composition, and the 
ground-work of beauty in all the arts. I will 
gladl. appropriate your most interesting new 
ballad «"\Vhen wild war's deadly blast,' &c 
to the • Mill, mill, O, ' as well as the other 
two sougs to ther respective airs; but the 
third and fourth lines of the first verse* must 
indergo some liftle alteration in order to suit 
he music. Pleyel does not alter a sin;le note 
of the songs. That would be absurd indeed! 
With thenars which he introduces into the 
sonatas, I allow him to take such liberties as 
pleases, cut that has nothing to do with the 
songs. 



with your ' i»igs o* Barley.' If the )vo:e 
sentiments were threshed oat of it, I will find 
en air for it ; but as to this there is no hurry. 



MR BURNS 10 MR THOMSON. 

Jane, 1793. 
When I tell vou, my dear sir, that a friend of 
mine, in whom 1 am much interested, has 
fallen a sacrifice to these accursed t mes, voa 
i Ida; it might unhinge me for 
- imong ballads. My own less, 
as to pecuniary matters, is (rifling; tut the 
total ruin of a much loved frieud, is a loss in- 
deed. Pardon my seeming inattention to your 
last con.-.- . 

I cannot alter the disputed lines in tne ' Will, 
mdl, O.'* What vou think a defect 1 est em 



were the third and fou 



BURNS. -CORRESPONDENCE. 



B3 a positive beauly : so you see how doctors 
differ. I shall now, with as much alacrity as 
I can muster, go on with your commands. 

You know Fraser, the hautboy player in 
Edinburgh— he is here instructing a band of 
music for a fencible corps quartered in this 
country. Among many of (lie airs that please 
hip, there is one well known as a reel Ly the 
name of « The Quaker's wife ;' and which I re- 
member a grand aunt of mine used to sing by 
the name of 'L'ggeram cosh, my bonuie wee 
lass.' Mr Fraser plays it slow, and with an 
expression that quite charms me. I became 
such an enthusiast about it, that I made a song 
for it, which I here subjoin; and enclose 
Fraser's set of the tune. If they hit your 
fancy they are at your service ; if not, return 
me the tune, and I will put it in Johnson's 
Museum. I think the song is not iu my worst 



7"une — *' Liggeram cosh." 

Blythe hae T been on yon hill, 

As the lambs before me ; 
Careless ilka thought and free, 

As the breeze flew o'er me: 
Now nae lander sport and play, 
_ Mirth or sang can please me, 
Lesley is sae fair and coy, 

Care and anguish seize ine. 

Heavy, heavy is the task 

Hopeless love declaring : 
Trembling, I dow nocht but glowr, 

Sighing, dumb, despairing ! 
If she winna ease the thraws, 

Inniy bosom swelling; 
Underneath the grass green sod, 

Socn maun be my dwelling. 

I should wish to hear how this pleases you. 



MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. 



Jam 



try, 5, 1793. 



the a 



• of ' Logat 



As our poet had maintained a long silence, 
and the lir»t number of Mr Thomson's Musical 
Work was in the press, this gentleman ven- 
tured, by Mr Erskine's advice, to substitute 
for them in that publication, 



me that its querulous melody probably had its 
origin from the plaintive indignation of some 
swelling suffering heart, fired at the tyrannic 
strides of seme public destroyer; and over- 
whelmed with private distress the consequence 
of a country's ruin. If I have done any thing 
at all like justice to my feelings, the following 
song, composed in three quarteis of an hour's 
meditation in my elbow chair, ought to have 



Tune—" Logan water." 

O, Logan sweetly didst thou gl : de. 
That day I was my Willie's bride ; 

Like Logan to ihe simmer sun. 
But now the flowery barks appear 
Like drumlie winter, dark and drear, 
While my dear lad maun face his faes, 
Far, far frae me and Logan braes. 

Again the merry month o' May, 

litis made our hills and valleys gay ; 

The birds vejoiee iu leafy bowers, 

The bees hum round the breathing Cower 

Blithe morning lifts iiis rosy eye, 

e tears of joy: 



; hawthorn bush, 



Wit Inn 5 

" male will share her toil, 

But I, wi' my sweet nurslings here, 

Nae mate to help, nae mate to cheer, 

Pass widow'd nights and joyless days. 



While Willie's far frae Logi 



Lives 



ts 



And Willie hauii 



idly hr.te ! 
iny a fend heart mourn, 

flinty hearts enjoy 
ears, tbe orphan's cry ;* 
ay peace bring happy days, 
Logan braes ! 



Have you ever, my dear sir, felt your bosom 
ready to burst with indignation on reading of 
those mighty villains who divide kingdom 
against kingdom, desolate provinces, and lay 
nations wasie out of the wantonness of ambi- 
tion, or often from still more ignoble; 

i mood of this kind to-day, I recollec-ed 



4ir_««Hughie Graham 
y love were yon red r 



That grc 

And I myseT a 

Into her boni 

««Oh, there be 

I'd feast on b 

Seul'don hers 

Till lley'd aw 

This thought i 



ond expression blest, 
;auty a' the night ; 
lk-saft faulds to rest, 
a by Phoebus' lighl. " 



rXpreasibly beautiful; 
and quite, solar as I know, original. It is too 
short for a song, else I would forswear you 



Though better suited to the music, these lines 
are inferior to the original. This is the only 
alteration adopted by Mr Thomson, wl ' ' 
Burns did not approve or at least assent to 



* Originally, 
" Ye mind na 'mid your c 
The widow's tears, the orphan's criea.' 



el joys, 
m's crie 



«70 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



altogether, unless von gave it a place. I have 
often tried to eke a stanza to it, but in vain. 
After balancing myself for a masiag five mi- 
nutes, oa the hind-legs of my elbow chair, I 
produced the following. 

The verses are far inferior to the foregoing, 
I frankly confess : but if worthy of insertion 
at all, they might be first in place : as every 
poet, who" knows any thing of his trade, will 
husband his best thoughts for a concluding 

O were my love yon lilach fair, 
Wi" purple blossoms to the spring ; 

And I a bird to shelter there 

When wearied on my little wing. 

Horn I wad mourn, when it was torn 
By autumn wild, and winter rude ! 

But I wad sing on wanton wing, 

When youthfu' May its bloom renew *d. 



MR THOMSON TO MR BURNS. 
Monday, 1st Jmv, 17P3. 
I am extremely sorry, my good sir, that any 
thing should happen to unhinge you. The 
times are terribly out of fuue, and when har- 
ruouy will be restored, heaven knows. 

The lirsl book of songs, just published, will 
be despatched to you along with this. Let 
me be favoured with your opinion of it frankly 

I shall certainly give a place to the song you 
have written for the 'Quakers Wife;' it is 
quite enchanting. Pray, will you return the 
list of songs, w:th such airs added to it as you 
think ought io be included. The business now 
rests entirely on myself, the gentleman who 
originally agreed to join in the speculation 
having requested to be off. No matter ; a loser 
I cannot be. The superior excellence of ibe 
work w.ll create a general demand for it, as 
soon as it is properly known. And were the 
sale even slower than what it promises to be, 
1 should be somewhat compensated for my 
labour, by the pleasure I should receive from 
the music I cannot express how much I am 
obliged to you for the exquisite new so gs you 
are sending me ; but thanks, my friend, are a 
poor return for what you have done ; as I shall 
be benefited by the publication, you must suf- 
fer me to inclose a small mark of my grati- 
tude,* and to repeat it afterwards when I 
find it convenient. Do not return it, for by 
heaven, if you do, our correspondence is at an 
end : and though this would be no loss to you, 
it would mar the publication, which under 
your auspices, cannot fail to be respectable and 

Wednesday morning. 
I thank yon for your delicate additional 
verses to the old fragment, and f.,r your excel- 
lent song to Logan water: Thomson's truly 



elegant one will follow for the English singer. 
Ycx.r apostrophe to statesmen is admirable, 
but I am not sure if it is quite suitable to the 
supposed gentle character of the fair r 

who speaks it. 



No. XXYIL 



.MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. 



MY DBAK SIR, 

I hav 



July 2, 1703. 



and 

my best style, I send it you. 
Mr (ilarke, who wrote down the air from Mrs 
Burns' weed-note wild, is very fond of it ; and 
has gi-en it a celebrity by teaching it to some 
young ladies of the first fashion here. If yoa 
do not like the air enough to give it a p'aee in 
your collection, please"return it. The soug 
\ou may keep, as I remember it. 

There was a lass, and she was fair, 

At kirk and market to be seen ; 
When a' the fairest maids were met, 

The fairest maid was bonnie Jean. 

And aye she wrought her mamraie's wark, 
And aye she sang sae merrily ; 

i ..e ":._. ...e = : _..-_ l.. : r. -be i.u = a 
Had"i.e'er a lighter heart than she. 

But hawks will rob the tender joys 
That bless the little lintwhites nest ; 

And frost will blight the fairest flowers, 
And love will break the soundest te=i. 

Yonng Robie was the brawest lad, 
The flower and pride of a' the glea ; 

And he had owsen, sheep and kye, 
And wantun uaigies nine or ten. 

He ?aed wi* Jean'e to Che tryst, 

He daaced wi' Jeanie on the down ; 

And lang ere witless Jeanie wist, 

Her heart was tint, her peace was stown. 

As in the bosom o' the stream, 

The moou-beam dwells at dewv e'en ; 

So trembling pure was tender love 
Within the breast o" bonnie Jean.* 

And now she works hermammie's war!--, 
And aye ;he sighs wi' care and rain ; 

Y'et wist na what her ail might be, 
Or what wad niak her weel aga;n. 

But did na Jeanie 's h?art loup light, 

And did na joy tliuk in her e'e, 
As Robie tauid a tale o' love 

Ae e'eniu, on the lily lea ? 

The s :a W3S sinkin? in (he west. 
The birds sang sweet in ilka grove ; 
is cheek to hers he fondly prest, 
And whisper'd thus his tale o* lore : 



BURNS. — CORRESPONDENCE. 



O Jear.ie fair, I lo'e thee dear ; 

O canst thou think to fancy me ? 
Or wilt tuou leave thy mammie's cot 

And learn to tent the farms wi* me 



At barn or byre thru 



shalt na drudge, 
i trouble thee ; 
But stray amang the heatuer-bells, 
And tent the waving corn wi' me. 

Now what could artless Jeanie do ? 

She had na will to say him na : 
At lengih she blush'd a sweet consent 

And love was aye between them twj 

I have some thoughts of insertirs 
index, or in my notes, the n; 
one*, the themes of my songs. - . 
the name at full ; but dashes or asterisms, so 
as ingenuity may find them out. 

The heroine of the foregoing is Miss M. , 
daughter to Mr M. of D. , one of your subscrib- 
ers. 1 have not painted her in the rank which 
she holds in life but in the dress and character 



tirg in your 
s of the fair 



The old ballad, ' I wish I were where Helen 
lies' is silly to contemptibility. * My alteration 
of it in Johnson's is not much belter. Mr Pin- 
kerlon, in his, what he calls, Ancient Ballads 
(many of them notorious, though beautiful 
enough forgeries) has the best set. It is full of 
his own interpolations — but uo matter. 

In my next, I will suggest to your consider- 
ation a few songs whicn may have escaped 
your hurried notice. In the meantime, allow 
me to congratulate you now, as a brother of 
the quill. You have committed your character 
and fame; which will now be tried, for ages 
to come, by the illustrious jury of the Sons and 
Daughters of Taste— all whom poesy can 
please, or music charm. 

Being a bard of nature, I have some preten- 
sions to second sight ; and I am warranted by 
the spirit to foretell and affirm, that your great 
grandchild will bold up your volume, and say, 
with honest pride, " This so much admired se- 
lection was the work of my a 



MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. 

July, 1793. 

I assure you, my dear sir, that you truly hurt 
trie with your pecuniary parcel. It degrades 
me in my own eyes. However, to return it would 
savour of affectation ; but as to any more traf- 
fic of that debtor and creditor kind, I swear 
by that Honour which crowns the uprigh' sta- 
tue of Robert Burns's Integrity— on the least 
motion of it, I will indignantly spurn the by- 
past transaction, and from that moment com- 
mence entire stranger to rou ! Bunis'is char- 
acter for generosity of sentiment and indepen- 
dence of mind will, I trust, long outlive any 
of his wants, which the cold unfeeling ore can 
supply: at least I will take care that such a 
character he shall deserve. 

Thank you for my copy of your publication. 
Never did my eyes behold, in any m osteal 
work, such elegance and correctness. Your 
preface, too, is admirably written ; only, your 
partiality to me has made you say too much ; 
however, it will bind me down to double every 
effort in the future progress of the work. The 
following are a few remarks on the songs in the 
list you sent me. I neier copy what' I write 
to you, so I may be often tautological, or per- 
haps contradictory. 

< The Flowers of the Forest ' is charming as 
a poe'ii ; aud should be, and must be, set to 
the notes : but, though out of your rule, the 
three stanzas beginning, 



«I ha« 



-ulY:r. f 



o' fortune beguil- 



nre worthy of a place, were it but to immor- 
tu.ize the author of li.em, v» ho is an old ladv of 
my acquaintance, and at this moment living in 
Edinburgh. She is a Mrs Cockburu ; I for- 



MB THOMSON TO MR BURNS. 
Edinburgh, August, 1793. 

DEAR SIR, 

had the pleasure of receiving your last two 
happy to find yot 



e quite 



letti 

pleased with the appearance of the first book. 
When you come to h«ar the songs hung and 
accompanied, you will be charmed with them. 
' The bonnie brucket Lassie, ' certainly de- 
serves better -verses, and I hupe vou will match 
her. « Cauld kail in Aberdeen",' ' Let me in 
this ae night,' and several of the livelier airs, 
wait the muse's leisure : these are peculiarly 
worthy of her choicest gifts; besides, you'll 
'notice, that in the airs of this sort, the singer 
can always do greater justice to the poet than 
:in the^ slower airs of ' The lush aboon Tra- 
iquair,-' ' Lord Gregory,' and the like; for in 
I the manner the latter are frequently sung, you 
must be contented with the sound without the 
sense. Indeed both the airs and words are 
disguised by the very slow, languid, psalm- 
singing style in which they are too often per. 
formed : they lose animation and expression 
altogether, and instead of speaking to the 
mind, or touching the heart, they cloy upon the 
ear, and set us i yawning ! 

Your ballad, « There was a lass and she was 
fair,' is simple and beautiful, and shall un- 
doubtedly grace my codec tion. 



* There is a copy cf thU ballad given ii 
the account of the parish of Kirkparick-Fiem 
ing, (which contains the tomb of Fair Helei 
Irvine,) in the statistics of Sir John Sinclai 

Vol. XIII. p. 275, to which this character i 
certainly not applicable, 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



No. XXX. 

MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. 
Amgmi, 1793. 

HI DEAR THOMSOXf 
I hold the pen for our friend Clarke, who, at 
present, is s'.udyinz the was c of the spheres 
at my elbow. T-.e * Gecrgmm Sidus,' he 
thinks, is rather out of tune ; si, until fce rec- 
tify that matter, he cauaot stoop to terrestrial 
affairs. 

He sends you s r x of the Rond-au subjects, 
and if more are wanted, he says you shall have 



Confound yc 



r long stairs 



S. CLARKE. 



No. XXXI. 

MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. 






At&ut, 1793. 



>ng of ' Logan Wa:er, * 
instance; bat i: is" difficult to mend it: if I 
can. ( will. The other passage you object to 
does not appear in the same i : ght to me. 

I have tred my har.d oa ' Robin Adair,' and 

you will probably ih'uik with little success; 

bat it is such a curbed, cramp, oat of the way 

. I .sp..;r of do::ig any thing 

PHILLI3 THE FAIR. 
Tune — '« Robin Adair. ' ' 

While larks with li 

Fana'd the puie a r, 
Taslins the breathing spring, 

Forth I did fure ; 
Gay the sun's golden eye, 
Peep'd o'er the ruoun a:s high ; 
Such thy mora : did I cry, 

Phillis the fair. 

In each bird's careless s^ng, 

Glad, I did sha-e ; 
While yon wild llowers among, 

Cha-.fceled me there; 
Sweet (o the opening day, 
Rose'.ucs bent the dewy spray ; 
bloom, did I say, 

PUiliis the fair. 

Down in a shady walk, 

I marV'd tne cruel ha.^k 

Caught in a snare : 
Sa kind may fortn'e be. 
Such makehi- des 
He who v. cu'.d iujure thee, 

PhiUU the fair. 

So much for namby-pamby. I may. 
all, trj mv hand oa it i:> Sco's -serss. 
1 a!»j.; End mse? most a: hyme. 



I have just pnt the last hand to the sonc- I 
meant for ' Cauld Kail in Aberdeen. * If" t 
s.its yon to insert it, I shall be pleased, as 
the hero;ne ts a favourie of mine : if not I 
shall also be pleased b-C£ase I wish, and will 
begad to see yon act decidedly on the bnsi- 
iH S s.w 'Tis a trhute as a man of taste, aad 
zs an editor, which jou owe yourself. 



No. XXXIL 

MR THOMSON TO MR BURNS. 

August, 1793. 
sir good sra, 

I consider it one of the most agreeable circum- 
stances attending this publication of ra he, 
that it has procured me so many of your much 
valu-d epstles. Pray make try acknowledg. 



my 
han 

i 



St Stephen for the t.mes : tell hi 
admit the justness of hs com : laint on my 
sar crtse, convened in his laconic postcript 
your j?v d'esprit; wLich I perused more th; 
once without discovering exactly whether yoi 
discussion was m-.uic, astrcnoniv, «.r polities 
though a sag2C:ous friend, acquainted w : * u ■' 
co v.vL] habits of the poet ajid the nius'Ciaj 
offered me a bet of two to one, \ou were just 
drowning care together; that an empty bowl 
was the o 1. thing that would deeply affect 
y.m, and the only mat;er you could then study 
ho* to rented* ! 

I shall be glad Jo see ycu gi»e 'Boon 
Adair' a Scottish dre.s. Peter is furnishing 
him with an English suit for a change, and 
you are well matched ;og=h-r. 
is exeeilt-nt, though he certainly has an out of 
the way mea-ure as ever p^-or Parnassian 
wight was plagued with. I wish you wqpld 
invoke ihe muse for a single elegant stan2a to 
be substituted for the concluding objectionable 
verses of • Down the burn Davis,' so that ;his 
most exquisite song may no longer be exclude-d 
from good company. 

Mr Allan has made an inimitable drawing 
from your « John Anderson my Jo, " which I 
am to have engraved, as a frontispiece to the 
humorous c'a-s cf songs; y~.u will be quite 
charmed with ;t, I promise vou. The old 
coupie are seated by the fireside. Mrs Ander- 
son in sreal gw d humour, is ci?7 
shoulders, while he sn 
with such £>e. as to sh; 

,v d uigh:s w Jen 'Ley 
were ■ nr=t acque-nt. ' I he drawing would do 
honour to the pencil of Teniers. 



No. XXXIIL 

MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. 

Aiisu*l> 17 S3. 

That cripkum-crarikum Icr.e ■ Robin Adair, 

has run so in my bead, and I succeeded s-. i 

tempt, tisal I have ventured in th; 



* The song sent herewith "s thai in p. 193. 



BURNS CORRESPONDENCE. 



273 



Morning's walk, one essay more. Yon, tny 
dear sir f will remember an unfortunate part of 
onr worthy friend C. 's story, which happened 
about three years ago. That struck my fancy, 
1 and I endeavoured to do the idea justice, as 
follows : 



SONG. 

Had I a cave on some wild, distant shore* 
Where the winds howl to the wave's dashin 
roar : 
There would I weep my woes, 
There seek my last repose, 
Till grief my eyes should close, 
Ne'er to wake more. 

Falsest of womankind, canst thou declare, 
kll thy fund plighted vows —fleeting as air! 

To ;hy new lover hie. 

Laugh o'er thy perjury. 

Then in thy b.,s jin try, 
What peace is there. 



villi i 



; quartered her 



rell i 



,*d;u, 



hree. * They certainly b: 
Scottish than frisli'taste in tbem. 

This man comes from the vicinity of Inver- 
; so it could not be any intercourse wich 
reland that could bring tbem ; except, what 
shrewdly suspect to be the case, the waader- 
iig minstrels, harpers, and pipers, used to gc 
requeully errant through the wilds both of 
Scotland and Ireland, and so some favourite 
i might be common to both. — A ease in 
it — They have lately, in Ireland, published 
n Irish air, as they say, called «• Cautl du de- 
sh." The fastis, in a publication of Corri's, 
great while ago, you will find the same air, 
ailed a Highland one, with a Gaelic song set 
Its name there, I think, is •• Oran 
"and a tine air it is. Do ask honest 
Ulan, or the Rev. Gaelic Parson, about these 
natters. 



No. XXXIV. 
MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. 
August, 1793. 

MY DEAR SIR, 

Let me in this ae night,' I will reconsider. I 

n glad you are pleased with my song, « Had 

a cave,' &c. as I liked it myself. 

I walked out yesterday evening, with a vo- 

e of the Museum in my hand ; when turn- 

igup 'Allan Water,' " What numbers shall 

fie muse repeat," &c. as the words appeared 

to me rather unworthy of so fine an air : and 

Recollecting that it is on your list, I sat and 

»»ved under the shadow of an old thorn, till I 

wrote out one to suit the measure. I may be 

^»rong, but I think it not in my worst style. 

You must know, that in Ramsay's Tea-Table, 

where the modern song first appeared, the an- 

»#ieiit name of the tune, Allan bays, is ' Allan 



Water,' or 'My love Annie's very bonnie. * 
This last has certainly been 9 line of the origi- 
nal song ; so I took up the idea, and, as you 
will see, have introduced the line in its place, 
whieh I presume it formerly occupied : though 
I likewise give you a " choosing line," should 
that not Lit the cut of your fancy. 

By Allan stream I chanced to rove, 

While" Phoebus sank beyond Benleddi ; * 
The winds were whispering through ths 

Tha yellow corn was waving ready : 
I listen 'd to a lover's sang, 

And thought on youthfu' pleasures mony : 



O happy be the woodbine bower, 

Nae nightly bogle raak it eerie ; 
Nor ever sorrow stain the hour, 

The place and time I met my dearie. 
Her head upon my throbbing breast, 

She, sinkin said, "I'm thine for ever ! ' 
While mony a kiss the seal impress 'd, 

The sacred vow, we ne'er should sever. 

The haunt o' spring's the primrose brae, 

The simmer joys "the flocks to follow : 
How cheery through her shortening day, 

Is autumn in her weeds o' yellow ; 
But can they melt the glowing heart, 

Or chain the soul in speechless pleasure, 
Or through each nerve tiie rapture dart, 

Like meeting her, our bosom's treasure. 

Bravo ! say 1 ; it is a go .d song. Should 
you think so too, (not else) y-m can set tho 
music to it, and let the other foilow as Eng- 

Autumn is my propitious season. I make 
more verses in it than in all the year else. 
God bless you ! 



No. XXXV. 
MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. 



August, 1793. 

id I'll come to you, my lad,* 
_\our airs ? I admire it much : and yes- 
I set the following verses to it. Urbani, 
I met with here, begged them of me, as 
lires the air much ; but as I understand 
e looks with rather an evil eye on your 
I did not choose to comply. However, 
song does not suit your taste, I may 
!y send it to him. The set of the air 
I had in my eye, is in Johnson's Mu- 



Is < W 

who -a 

headu...^ 

that he looks with rather 

if tin' 



O whistle and I'll come to you, my lad, t 
O whistle and I'll come to you, my lad; 



* A mountain west of Strath-Allan, 3009 
feet high R 15. 

f Or, " my love Annie's very bonnie." 
R. B. 

tin some of the MSS. the first four liuw 
run thus : 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 

father and tnither and a' should gae ' But beauty, how frail and how flwSirt*, 



O whistle and I'll come to you, my lad. 

But warily tent when you come to court me, 
And come nae unless the back-yet be ajee ; 
Syne up the back-style, and let nae body see, 
And come as ve were nae coniin' to me. 
And come, &i. 

wkistte, &c. 

At kirk, or at market, whene'er ye meet me, 
Gang by me as tho' that ye cared aae a file ; 
But steal me a blink o' your bonuie black e'e 
Vet look as ye were nae lookin' at me. 
Yet look, &e. 

O whistle-, kc. 

Ay vow and protest that ye care nae for me-, 
And whiles ye may lightly my beauty a wee ; 
But court nae auither though joking je be, 
Tor fear that she wyle your faucy frae me. 
For feur, & c, 

O whistle, &c. 






air of mine i 
' When su 
ished that ii 



■ The 



idown winding Ni-.h I did wt 
To mark the sweet flowers i 

tdbwn wiodng Nith I did * 
Of Piiiliib to ec u^e and to s 



The bloom of a 
While worth in the mind o' my Phillis 
Will flourish withom a decay.* 
Awa, ore. 

Mr Clarke begs you to give Miss Phillis a 
corner in your took, as she is a partcular 
She is a Miss P. M., sister to 
bonnie Jean. They are bo h pupils of his. 
shall hear from me, i!:e very first grist I 
get from my Thy:aiug mill. 



No. XXX VI. 
MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. 

AugttFt, 1793. 

That tune • Cauld Kail,' is such a favourite of 
vours, that 1 onee more roved out vesterday 
for a gloamin-sho! at the muses ;f when the 
muse that presides o'er the shores of i*i!h, or 
rather my old inspiring dearest nymph, Coila, 
whispered me the following. 1 have two rea- 
sons for thinking that it was ray early, sweet, 
simple inspirer tbat was by my elbow, 
•' smooth gliding without step," and pouring 
the song en my glowing fancy. In the first 
place, since I left Coila's native haunts, not a 
fraoiueut of a poet bus risen to cheer her soli- 
tary musings, by catching inspiration from her; 
so i more than suspect that she has followed 
ice hither, or at lea?t makes me occasional 
visits; secondly, the last stanza of this song 
i send you in the very words that Coilataught 
me many years ago, and which I set to an old 
Sects reel in Johnson's Museum. 



Has u 
he daisy an 



wi' the queen o 

.ed my fond fan. 
simple, so wild 
said I, o' my P. 
uiplicity '< 
Awa, i 



ild. 



The rosebud's the blush o' my charmer 
fler sweet balmy lip when 'tis press' 

liow fair and how pure is the lily, 
But fairer and purer her breast. 
Awa, &c. 

Yon knot of say flowers in the arbour 
They ne'er" wi' my Phillis can vie, 

Hot breath is the breath o T the woodbin 
Its dew-drop o* diamond her eye. 



Awa, &c. 

ler voice is the song of the 
That wakes through tb< 
grove, 
tVhen Phoebus peeps 
On mus ; c and pleasure, ai 
Awa, &c. 



Come ht me ti 

''And pledge l 
And I shall sh. 

The warld's 
fknei do I hear 

That equal t 






the 



O whistle and I'll come to thee, my jo, 

O rustle and I'll come to thee, my jo ; 

Tho' father and mother and a' should -; 

'.-: and I'll come to thee, my jo. 



' Cauld Rail. " 
hee to my breast, 



life alone 
e to love her. 



Thiu 



jsp my . 



I'll seek 

Ti.an sic 
And by thy 



initio 



heaven to sl:a 
moment's pleasure : 
;n, sae bonnie blue, 
n thine for ever I 
And on thy lips I seal my vow. 
And break it shall I never. 






* This song, certainly beautiful, would r.p- 
;ear to more advantage without the chorus ; 
is is indeed the case with several other tonga 
)f our author. 

| Gloam;u._t«ii"ght, probobly from gloom- 
nr, A beautiful poetical word which ought 
lobe adopted in England. * 
twilight interview. 



ll-aho!, 



bltixs.— coiiresfo?:de;,\je- 



p.->! lime I cam o'er the Moor,' I cannot 
with, as <o mending it : and the imisi- 
i;J have been su long r.ccustomed to 
> 's words, tha' a different sung, though 
'Ay super'.or would not be so uellre- 
"I am not fond of choruses :o songs, 
ve not made one for the foregoing. 



No. XXX VII. 

MR THOMSON TO Mil BURNS. 

Angus! 1793. 

DAINTY DAViE. 

Now rosy Maj comes in wt' flowrrs, 
To deck her guy, green spreading bowers ; 
A;.d now come= in my happy hours, 
To wander wi* my Davie. 



Dainty Davie, dainty i'avis 

There I'll spend the day wi* ; 

My ain dear dainty Davie. 

The crystal waters round us fa', 
The merry birds are lovers a', 
The scented breezes round us b!aw 
A wandering wi' my Davie. 
Meet uie, &c. 

Wht 



eal upon 1 


ornir.g starts the hs 


i thremg.. i 


ie dews I wit! repa 
aithfu' Davie. 



MR THOMSON TO MR BURNS. 
Edinburgh, 1st Sept. 1793. 

MY DEAR SIR, 

nee writii.g \ou last, I have received half a 
zen songs, with which I am delighted be- 
yond expression. The humour and fancy of 
' Whistle and I'll come to you, my lad, ' wiil 
?nder it nearly as great a favourite as * Duncan 
(.ray.' ' Come let rce take thee to my breast,' 
' Adown winding Nilh,' and « By Allan 
'.ream,' &c. ore fuii of imagination and feel- 
ng, and sweetly suit the airs for which 
hey are intended. • Had I a cave on some 
viid distant shore,' is a striking and affecting 
omposition. Our friend, to whose story it 
efcrs, r. ad it with a swelling heart, I assure 
you. The union we are now forming, I think, 
never be broken ; these songs of yours will 
descend with the music to the latest posterity, 
will be fondly cherished ..o long as genius, 
taste, and sensibility exist in cur island. 

While the muse seeuis so propitious, I 
think it right to inclose a list of ail the fa- 
vours I have to r.sk of her, no fewer than 
twenty and three ! 1 have burdened the pleas- 
ant Peter with as many as it is piobable he 
will attend to: most of the remaining airs 
would puzzle the English poet not a little; 
they are of that peculiar measure and rhythm, 
that they must be familiar to him who writes 
for theai. 



Meet me on the warlock knowe, 

Bonnie Davie, namty i>u\ie, 
There I'll spend the day wi' vou, 

My ain dear dainty Davie.* 

So much far Davie. The chorus, you know 
is to the low part of the tune. See Clarke' 
tetof it in the Museum. 

N. B. In the Museum they have drav.Ie 
out the tune to twelve liner, of poetry, wbicl 

is nonsense. Four liu;s of song, and 

four of chorus, is she way. 



MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. 

Sept. 1793. 
You may readily trust, my near sir, that any 
exertion in my power is heart ;ly at your ser- 
vice. But one thing 1 must hiut to "you ; the 
very name of Peter Pindar h of great service 
o your publication, so get a verse from him 
ind then ; though I have no objectic 



v,;i; 



a bear the burden of the busi- 



Yiu know that my pretensions to musical 
taste, ore merely a few of nature's instincts, 
untaught and untutored by art. For this rea- 
son, many musical compositions, particularly 
where much of the merit lies in counterpoint ; 
however they may transport and ravish the 
ears of you connoisseurs, affect my simple 
lus no othervt fee than merely as melodious din. 
On the other band, by way of amends, I am 
delighted with many little nielodies, which the 
learned musician despises <-.s s : lly and insipid. 
1 do not know whether the eld air « Hey tuttie 
taitiie' may rank among th's number; but ne;l 
1 know that with Frr.zer's hautboy, it has of- 
ten tilled my eyes wi;h tears. There is a tra- 
dition, which I have met with in many places 
of Scotland, that it was Robert Bruce 's march 
at the battle of Baunockburn. This thonght, 
in my solitary wanderings, wormed me U) a 



876 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



pitch of enthusiasm en the theme of Liberty 
and Independence, which I threw into a kind 
cf ScuttUh cde, titled to the r.ir that one ini^ht 
eL:p-ose to be the gallant Royal Scot's address 
to his heroic followers ca that eventful morn- 
ing.* 

BRUCE TO HIS TROOPS. 



S:::--, wha 
Welcome ti 



To its own Tune. 

ha hie wi' Wt 

Bruce has afteu led ; 
\our gory bed, 



Now's the day. and now's the hour ; 
See the front o' battle lcur ; 
See approach proud Edward's piwer- 
Chaias and siaverie I 

Wha will be a traitor-knaTe ? 



Wha for Scotland's king and law, 
Freedom's sword will sht glj draw 
Free-man stand or 1 'ri 
Let him follow me : 

By oppression's woes and pains! 

By your sons in servile ch-iins! 

We will drain our dearest veins. 

But ihey shall be free ; 

road usurpers low : 
Tyrants fail 111 every foe ! 
L:c-?ri. '$ in everv blow ! 
Let us Do vr Die ! 



MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. 
Sept. 1793. 
lare say, my dear sir, that you will begin 
think my correspondence is persecution. 
matter, I can't help it ; a bal ad is ny 
noDby-horse; which, though otherwise a sim- 
ple sort of harmless, idiotical beast enough, 
has yet tl.is blessed headstrong proper:}-, that 
when ouce it has fairly made off with a hap- 
- il gets so enamoured with the 

tinkle-gutgie, tiakle-gingle of its own bells, 
that it is sure to run poor Pil-garl c. ihe bed- 
lam jockey, quite be}ond any" useful point or 
post iu the coiumou race of man. 

Ihe following song I have composed for 
* Orait gaoil, ihe Highland air that you tell nie> 
in ;our last, you have resolved to give a place 
to in your book. I have this moment finished 
the song ; so jou have it glowing from the 
mint. If it suit you, well! if not, 'tis also 



T .;_" Oran-gaoil." 

.e hour, the boat arrive ; 
Thou goest, thou dariing of my heart; 

from thee can I survive- 
But fate has will'd, and we must part. 
I'il often greet this surging sweil, 
You distant ts!e w:ls often hail : 
" E en here I took the last farewell ; 

her vanish 'd sail. " 

_ he solitary shore, 
While flittiug sea-fowl round me err, 
Across the roiling, dashing roar, 

il westward turn my wistful eye : 

V» here now my Nan 3} 's path clay be ! 
While through thy sweets she loves "to stray, 
O tell me does she muse on me ! 



So may God ever defend the cause of Truth 
and Liberr. , ai latday! — Ansen. 

P. &—1 showed the .. 



free* .associated h tbeg • . _ ideas f 

quite so ardent, roused ui} rhyming mania. 
Clarke's set of the tune, with his ba.-s, you 
will hud in the Museum ; though I am afraid 
that the air is not what will entitle it to a place 
in your elegant selection. 



* This noble strain was conceived by cur 
|oel during a storm among the wilds of Glen- 
Ken, in Galloway. A more finished copy will 
be found afterwards. 



MR THOMSON TO MR BURNS. 
Edinburgh, Slh Sept. 3 793. 
I believe it is generally allowed that the great- 
est modesty is the sure attendant of the great- 
est merit. While you are sending me Terses 
that even Shakspeare might be proud to own, 
; oo speak of them as if they were ordinary pro- 
ductions ! Your heroic ode is to me the nc- 

ioa of the kind in tbe S-ottish 
iauguage. 1 happened to c.ne yesterday with 
a parly of your friends, to whom 1 r^ad it. 
ihey were all charmed with it, entreated me 
to hud out a suitable air for it, and reprolated 
tne idea cf giving it a tune so lotally devoid of 
interest or grandeur as «Hey tuttie taitiie.' As- 

..rtiality fur mis tune uuut arise 
from ihe ideas associated iu }our mind by the 
itiou concerning it, for I never heard any 
person, — and I have conversed again and 
again with the greatest enthusiast* for Scot- 



BURNS. - CORRESPONDENCE. 



S77 



tish airs— I say I never heard any one speak of 
it as worthy of notice. 

I have been running over the whole hun- 
dred airs of which I lately sent you the list; 
and 1 think 'Lewie Gordon' is most happily 
adapted to your ode ; at least with a very short 
variation of the fourth line, which I shall pre- 
sently submit to you. There is in ' Lewie 
Gordon' more of the grand than the plaintive, 
particularly when it is sung with a degree of 
spirit, which your words would oblige the 
singer to give it. I would have no scruple 
about substituting your ode in the room of 
• Lewie Gordon,' which has neither the inter- 
est, the grandeur, nor the poetry that charac. 
terise your verses. Now the variation I have 
to suggest upon the last line of each verse, 
the only line too short for the air, is as follows : 

Verse Is/, Or to glorious victorie. 

2d, Chains -chains and slavene. 

3d. Let him, let him turn and (lie. 
4th, Let him bravely follow me. 

. th, But they shall, they shall be free. 

6th, Let us, let us do or die ! 

If you connect each line with its own verse, 
I do not think jou will liud that either the 
sentiment or the expression loses any of its 
energy. The only hue which I dislike in the 
whole of the song is, " Welcome to your gory 
bed." Would no! another word be preferable 
to welcome ? In your next I will expect to be 
informed whether jou agree to what 1 have 
proposed. These little alterations I submit 
With the greatest deference. 

The beauty of the verses you have made for 
' Orau gaoil,' will insure celebiity to the air. 



No. XLII. 
MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. 
September, 1793. 
I have received your list, my dear sir, and 
here go my observations on it. * 

« Down the burn, Davie.' I have this mo- 
ment tried an alteration, leaving out the last 
half of the third stanza, and the lirst half of 
the last stanza, thus: 

As down the burn they took their way. 
And through the flowery dale ; 

His cheek to hers he aft did lay, 
And love was aye the tale. 

With «« Mary, when shall we return, 

Quoth Mary, «« Love, I like the burn, 
And aye shall follow you. "f 



* Mr Thomson's list of songs for his pub- 
lication. In his remarks (he bard proceeds in 
order, and goes through the whole; but on 
many of them he merely signifies his approba- 
tion. All his remarks of any importance are 
presented to the reader. 

t This alteration Mr Thomson has adopted, 
(or at least intended to adopt,) instead of the 



■ • Through the wood laddie :' I am decidedly 
I of opinion, thut both in this and • 'there'll ne- 
! ver be peace till Jamie comes hame, ' the 
second or high part et the tune being a repeti- 
tion of the in st part an octave higher, is only 
for instrumental music, and would be much bet- 
fing. 



is the production of Crawford: Robert v 
his Christian name. 
• Laddie li 



I do l) 



lie by 



til 



my c 



sir 'S'"o' (»uch as it is,) I never can compose 
for it. My way is : I consider the poetic senti- 
ment correspondent to my idea of the musical 
expression ; then choose my theme ; begin one 
stanza ; when that is composed, which is ge- 
nerally ihe most difficult part of the business, 
1 walk out, sit down now and then, look out 
for objects in nature around me, that are in 
unison or harmony with the cogitations of my 
fancy, and workings of my bosom ; humming 
every now and then ihe air with the verses i 
have framed. When I feel my music beg ; n- 
ning to jade, I retire to the solitary fireside of 
my study, and there commit my effusions to 
paper, swinging at intervals on the hind legs 
of in) elbow-chair by way of calling forth my 
own critical strictures, as my pen goes on. 
Seriously, this at home, is almost invariably 
my way." 

What cursed egotism ! 

• Gill Morice' 1 am for leaving out. It is a 
plaguey length ; the air itself is never sung : 
and its place can well be supplied by one or 
two songs for fine airs that are not in your 
list. For instance, 'Craigieburn-wood' and 
• Roy's Wife. ' The tirst, beside its intrinsic 
merit, has novelty ; and the last has high 
merit, as well as great celebrity. I have (lis 
original words of a song for the last air, in the 
hand-writing of the lady who composed it ; and 
they are superior to any edition of the song 
which the public has yet seen.* 

« Highland laddie.' The old set will pleaae 
a mere Scottish ear best ; and the new an Ital- 
ianized one. There is a thiid, and what Os- 
wald calls the old ' Highland laddie,' which 
pleases me more than either of them. It is 
sometimes called ' Ginglan Johnnie ;' is being 
the air of an old humorous tawdry song of that 
name You will iind it in the Museum, * I hae 
been at Crookie-den,' &c. I would advise jou, 
in this musical quandary, to offer up jour 
prayers to tie muses for inspiring direction ; 
and in the meantime, waiting for this direc- 
tion, bestow a libation to Bacchus; and thero 
is not a doubt but you will hit on a judicious 
choice. Probalum est. 



original song, which is objectionable in point 
of delicacy. 

* This song, so much admired by our bard, 
will be found in the future part of the volame. 



2TS 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



* Auld Sir Simon,' I must beg you to leave 
cut, and put in its place, ' The Quaker's wife. ' 

' Blythe hae 1 bsen on the hill ' is cue of 
the finest songs ever 1 made in ray life; and 
" ' , positively 



the most be 


mtifti 


, love! 


: ■•sea 


an i'n 


he wo 


-id. 


As I purpo= 


e S v, 


; ? yot 


the n 


ames 


.:.ti d = 






.1 my 






appea 






future editi 


•;. if 










century he 


■ice, 


you ui 


ust certainly inc 


u»e 


4 ihe bonni 


Ml la 




' the 


warid 


' "» 3 




eoileclion. 














' Dainty 


Davi. 


' I h 


ve h 


ard su 


•g, n 


ne- 




id, . 


,:e hu 


:dred 


and n 


uety 




times, and 


ai .va : . 


s wiih 


the c 


borus 


o the 


i w 


part of tike 


luae 


and 


lothii 


g has 


surpr 


sed 



* a M 



ine so much as your opinion on thi; 

If it wilt not suit, as I proposed, we 

two of the stanzas together, and then make 

the chorus follow. 

* Fee him father ' — I inclose you Frazer's 
tet of this tune when he plays it slow ; in fact, 
he makes it the language of despair. I shall 
here give you two stanzas in that style ; mere- 
ly to try if it will beany improvement. Were 
jive it half the pathos 
i playing, it would 
:tic soug. I do not 
any merit thev have. I 
" '« which Patie 
about the back 
;de of a bowl of 
rcry mortal hi 
id the muse. 

Thou hast left 

-, Jamie, Thou hast left 

Aften hast thou vow'd that death, Only 

should us sever, 
Now thou's left thy lass for aye — I maun see 

thee never, Jamie, 
I'll see the,; never.* 

Thou hast me forsaken, Jamie, Thou hast me 

forsaken. 
Th,p hast me forsaken, Jamie, Thou hast me 

forsaken, 
Thou cumsi love anither Jo, While my heart 

is breaking : 
Soon my weary e'en I'll close — never mair to 

waken, J a 



which Fr 


utH 




pive tuese 

o'' iniduig 
puuch, w 
company t 


liich 


at the 
died, ;1 
and bv 
had o 


Thou hast left 


tne ever, 


Thou hast 


lea 


me ever, 



eiiher, and in the andante way, would unite 
with a-charining sentimental ballad. 

' Saw ye my father' is one of my greatest 
favourites. The evening before lasi, I wan- 
dered out and began a tender song ; in what I 
think is its native style. 1 must premise that 
the old way, and the way to g.ve most eiiec, 
is to have no starling note as the tiddlers ca;l 
it, but to burst at once in.o the pathos. 
Every country girl sings— *•,« Saw ye my fa- 
ther," &c. 

My song is but jnst begun; and I should 
like, before I proceed, to know your opinion of 
it. 1 have sprinkied it with the Scottish dia- 
lect, but it may be easily turned into correct 
English. 

FRAGMENT. 

2 une— «« Saw ye my father. ' ' 



rVliere are the j 
That danced to 
-Viiere is the pe 



}S I hae met in the »! 
.ce that awaked ?:iy \ 
he wild woods amang ? 



Is it that summer 

And grim sarlv 

No, :.o ; the be< 



and sad sighing care. 

mer's forsaken our valleys, 
irlv winter is near? 

ng round the 

i the pride o' the year. 



Ne'e 



raken.f 



i:ad in 



• Jocky a, id Jennj' I would discard, and in 
'is place would put 'There's nae luck about 
the hou.-e,* whicu has a v c r; pleasant a 
which is positively the finest iove-bi 
that style in the Scottish, or perhaps 
other language. ' When she cam ben she 
bobbet, ' as au air, is more beautiful than 



* The Scottish (the Editor uses th 
substantively, as the English) employ I 
braviation, I'll for I shall es well as I 
and it is fjv I shall it is used here, 
nandale, as in the northern counties 
land, for I shall, they use l'se. 

t Tliis is the whole of the song, the bard 
never proceeded farther. — Note • 



• Eng- 



son. 



Fain would I hide, what I fear to discover, 
Yet laug, lang too well hae L known ; 

A' that has caused ii;e wreck in my bosom 
is Jenny, fair Jenny alone. 

Cetera Desuut. 

« Tod! in harae. ' Urbani mentioned an 

idea of iiis which has lo::e tee;i mine; that 
this air is highly susceptible of pathos ; ac- 
cordingly, yon will soon hear hun, at vour 
concert." try ii to a song of mine inihe'.Mu- 
b:um, « Ve banks and braes o' bonnie Doon.' 
— One song more and I have done. » Auld 
lang syne.' T-e air is but ••mediocre;" 
bat the following toug, the old song of the 
oiieu times, and wiich has never been in 
print, nor even in manuscript, until I took it 
down from an old man's singing, is enough to 
recommend any air. 

AULD LANG SYNE. 

Should auld acquaintance be forgot, 

And never brought to mic' ? 
Should auld acquaintance be forgot, 
And the days o' lang syne ? 



For auld tang syne, my dear, 

For auld lang syne. 
We'll tak a cup of kindness yet» 

For auld lang syne. 



! 







BURNS. —CORRESPONDENCE. 



We Iwa bae run abuut the braes. 

And pou't the go wans fine ; 
But we've wandered inony a weary foot 

Sin auld lang syne. 

For aald, &c 

We twa hae paidlet i* the burn, 

But seas between us braid hue roar'd, 
Sin auld langswie. 

For auld, &c. 

And here's a band, my trusty fiere, 

And gie's a hand o' thine ; 
And we'll tak a right guid-willie waugttf, 

For auld lang syne. 

For auld, &c. 

And surely ye'il be your pint-stowp, 

And surely I'll be' mine! 
And we'll tak a cup o' kindness vet. 

For auld lang syne.* 

For auld, &.C. 

Now, I suppose I have tired jour patience 
fairly. You must, after all is over, have a 
number of ballads, properly so called. • Gill 
Morice, Tra.ie.it Mu!r, M'Pherson's Fare- 
well, Battle of Sherilr-muir,' or ' We ran and 
they ran, (I know (ho author cf this charming 
ballad and his history), Hardiknute, Barbara 
Allan, ' (I can furnish a liner set of this tune 
than any that has yet appeared), and besides, 
do you know that I really have the old tune to 
which « The Cherry and the Slae ' was sung ; 
and which is mentioned as a well known air 
in Scotland's Complaint, a book published 
before poor MaryB days. It was then called 
■ The banks o' Helicon ;' an old poem whieh 
Pinkerton has brought to light. You will see 
all this in Tytler's History of Scottish Music. 
The tune, to a learned ear, may have no great 
merit ; but it is a great curiosity. I have a 
good many original things of this kind. 



No. XLI1I. 

MR BURNS TOMB. THOMSON. 

September, 1793, 
I am happy, my dear sir, that my ode picas* 
you so much. Your idea, "honour's bed,' 
is, though a beautiful, a hackneyed idea: sc 
if you please, we will let the Hue stand as 
ii. I have altered the song as follows : 



BANNOCKBURN. 



RCBERT BRUCE S ADDRESS TO HIS ABMV. 

Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled ; 
Scots wham Bruce has aften led ; 
Welcome to your gory bed, 
Or to glorious victory. 



Now's the day and now's the hoar ; 
See the front o' battle lour ; 
Sae approach proud Ed ward* s povve?— 
Edward! chains and slavery i 



Traitor! coward ! turn and floe ! 

Wha for Scotland's king and law 
Freedom's sword will strongly draw t 
Freeman stand or freeman fa', 
Caledonian J on wi' me! 

By oppression's woes and pains ! 
By your sons in servile chains * 
We will drain our dearest reins, 
But they shall be— sball be free ' 

Lay the proud usurpers low ! 
Tyrants fall in every foe ! 
Liberty's in every blow ! 
Forward ! let us do or die ! 



A couplet worthy of Homer. Yesterday 
you had enough of my correspondence. The 
post goes, and my head aches miserably. 
One comfort; I suffer so much, just now 
in this world, for last night's joviality, that I 
shall escape scot-free for it in the world to 



No. XLIV. 
MR THOMSON TO MR BURNS. 



2ih Sept. 1793. 

u, my dear sir, for 

of my songs. 



borses. 

will. aUsmio 



thousand thanks I 
sur observations on 

in happy to find joui ideas so much in unison 
■iih my own respecting the generality of the 
irs as well as the verses. Afout them we 
disputing about hobby- 
fail to profit by the rc- 
uake; and to reconsider the whole 



« Dainty Davie ' must be sung two stanzas 
together and then the chorus — 'tis the proper 
vay. I agree v.iih you, that there may be 
omething of pathos, or tenderness at least, in 
lie air of • Fee him, faiher, ' when performed 
vith feeling ; but a tender cast may be. giveu 
o almost any lively air, if \ou sing it very 
slowly, expressively, and with serious words, 
tin, hov\ever, clearly and invariably for re- 
ning the cheerful tunes joined to their own 
humorous ve«ses, wherever ihe verses are pass- 
able. But the sweet song for ' Fee him, fa- 
ther,' whieh you began about the back of mid- 
night, I will publish as an additional one. Mr 
I James Balfour, the king of good fellows, and 

I i he best singer of the lively Scottish ballad* 
that ever existed, has charmed thousands of 
companies with ' Fee him, father, ' and with 



sso 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



Tcdlin hame ' also, to the old words, which 
never should be disunited from eitiier of these 
airs. S'rae bacchanals 1 would wish co dis- 
card. • Fy let us a* to the bridal,' for i:is:ai;ee, 
is so coarse a:id vulgar, that I ihiiik it lit oniy 
to be sung in a company of drunken colliers ; 
aud ' Saw ye my father' appears to me both 
indelicate and silly. 

One word more with regard to your heroic 
ode. I :hink, with great ceference to the p-cet, 
that a prudent general would avoid saying any 
tuiiiJ to his soldiers which might lend to make 
death more frightful than it is. Gory, presents 
a disagreeable image to the mind ; "and to te.l 
them, ' Welcome to your gory bed,' seems 

the alternative which follows. I have shown 
the song to three frienos of excellent taste, tnd 
each of them objected 10 this line which em- 
boldens me to use the freedom of bringing it 
again under jour notice. 1 woul 



Kb. XLT. 

MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. 

Sep!. 1793. 
*' Who will de?ide when doctors d-sagree :" 
My ode pleases me so much that I cannot af- 
ter iu Your proposed alterations would, in 
my opinion, make it tame. I am exceedingly 
obliged, to jou for putting me on re-consider- 
ing it ; as" I ihiuh I huve mueb improved iu 
Instead of " socger : hero!" I will have it 



■ Cale 



n! 






D . to 



tinized it, 
the world s -me way or other it shall go 
is. i.t the same time it will not in the least 
hurl me, should you leave it out altogether 
and adhere to jour lirst intention of adopting 



5.* 



* Mr Thomson has very prcperly adopted 
this song, if it may be so called, as the bard 
presented it to him. He has attached it to the 
air of * Lewie Gordon.' and perhaps among 
the existing airs he could not find a better ; 
but the poetry is suited to a mucti higher 
strain of music, and may employ the genius 
of some Scottish Handel, if any such should 
in future arise. The reader will have ob- 
served that Burns adopted the alterat ons pro- 
posed by his friend and correspondent in for- 
mer instances with great readiness 1 perhaps, 
indeed, on all indifferent occasions. In the 
present instance, however, he rejected them, 
though repeatedly urged, with determined re- 
solution. With every respect for the judg- 
ment of Mr Thomson and his^ friends, we may- 
be satisfied that he did so. He who in prepar- 
ing for an engagement attempts to withdraw 
bis imagination from images of death, will 
probably have but imperfect success, and is 
not fitted to stand in the ranks of battle, where 
the liberties of a kingdom are at issue. Of 
6uch men the eonqutrors at Bannockburn were 



I have finished my song to • Saw ye o:f 
father j* and in English, as you will ne. 
i" Lac there is a syllable too much for the ex- 
pression of the air, is irue; but allow n:e lo 
say, that the mere dividing of a dotted crotchet 
into a crotchet and a quaver, is not a great mai- 
ler : however, in that, 1 have no pretension 
to cope in judgment with you. Of ihe p.eirv 
I speak with confidence ; but the musi..- is a 
business where 1 hiut my ideas with tbe ut- 
most diffidence. 

The old verses have merit, though unequal* 
and are popular ; my advice is to set ihe air to 
the old words, and let mine follow as English 
verses. 

FAIR JENNY. 



Where are the jovs 1 ha'e met in the morning, 
That danced lo the lark's early song 1 

Where is the peace that awaited my wander* 
ins-, 
At evening the wild woods among ? 



not composed. Brnce's troops were inured 
to war, and familiar with all its sufferings and 
dangers. On the eve of that memorable day, 
their ;p ri:s were without doubt wound up tc 
a pi;ch of enthusiasm suited lo the occasion ; 
a pitch of enthusiasm at \\ h c!i dangex becomes 
attractive, and the n:o-i 

are no longer terrible. Such a slra.n of senti- 
ment this heroic "welcome" may be sup- 
posed well calculated to elevate — to ra:se their 
hearts high above fe;r, and nerve their arm? 
to the utmost pteh of mortal exertion. These 
observations might be illustrated and supported, 
by a reference to the mart.ai poetry of all na- 
tions, from the spirit-stirring strains cf Tyitse- 
us, lo the war-song cf General Wolfe. Mr 
Thomson's observation, that ** Welcome to 
your gory bed, is a discouraging address " 
seems not sufficiently considered. Pr-rhaps, in- 
deed, it may be admitted, that the term gory is 
somewhat objectionable, no; on account of its 
presenting a frightful but a disagreeable image 
to the mind. But a great poet uttering his con- 
ceptions on an interesting occasion, seeks al- 
ways to present a picture ihat is vivid, and is 
uniformly disposed to sacrifice the delicacies 
of taste on theallar cf the in. agination, 
it is the privilege of superior gen. us, by pro- 
ducing a new association, 10 elevate expressions 
ti.at were originally low, and thus to triumph 
over the deficiencies of lai-guage. In how 
many instances might this be exemplified 
from the works of cur immortal Shakspeare. 






" Who would fardels bear, 
To groan and stceat under a weary life, 
When he himself might his quietus make 
Y> ith a bare bodkin. " 



BURNS. —CORRESPONDENCE 



Is it that summer's forsaken our valleys, 

And grim surly winter is near ? 
No, no, the bees humming rouud the gay 

Proclaim it the pride of the year. 

Fain would I hide what I fear to discover, 
Vet lo ■ g, long loo well have I known : 

Ail liiut has caused this wreck in iny bosom, 
Is jenny, fair Jenny alone. 



then, < 


lid me, i 


ly griefs are 
d and fond 


immortal. 


ojinent 


1*11 seek 


in mj woe. 





No. XL VI. 
MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. 
Sep.. 93 



' Raving winds around iter blowing. '* 

t'our Irish airs are pretty, but they are 
vnright Irish, if they w -re like the 'Hanks 
Banna,' for instance, though res ii\ Irish, 
in tne Scottish taste, you might adopt 
in. Since you are so fond of Irish music. 



■'■':■-'-' 



> of the 



>uld 






y cf clia 



vili 



find (hi: 



most saleable of the 
ove of ' Roj 's wife, ' 
i sake we shall not insert it. 



that joi 

that you would ti 

whole. If you d{ 

•Deil tak the wars/ is a charming song; 
to is 'Saw ye my Peggy.' ''I here's uae 
luck about the house,' well deserves a place; 
I cannot saj that ' O'er the bills and far awa J 
strii.es me .-is equal to ycnr selection. ' This 
is no mine ain house,' is a great favourite air 
of mine; and if you will send me your set of 

t, I will task my muse to her highest effort. 

What is your opinion of « I hae laid a herriu 
in sawt ? I like it uiuch. Your Jacobite airs 
are pretty ; and there are many others of 
the same kind pretty — but you have not room 
for them. You cannot, I think, insert ' Fye 
let us a' lo the bridal' lo any other words than 



t have allotted n 



I have been turning over some volu: 
songs, to find verses whose t 
suit the airs for which y 
fiud English songs. 

For ' Aiuirland Wiilie ' you have, in 
say's Tea-table, an excellent song, Jri 
* Ah, why those tears in Nelly's eyes 'i* 
♦The Collier's Dochter,' lake the fol 
old Bacchanal. 

Deluded swain, the pleasure 
The tickle fair can give iliee, 

Is bnt a fair) ireasure, 

Thy hones will soon deceive the 

The billows on the ocean. 
The breezes idly roaming, 

The cloud's uncertain motion, 
ihey are but types of woman. 

O ! art tnou not ashamed, 
To doat upon a feature ? 

If man thou wouldst be named, 
Despise the silly creature. 

Co, find 

Hold on till tho, 
And then to be 



lh; 



What pleases me, as simple 
ists you as ludicrous and low. 
n, * Fye, pie rne my coggie 
' ' the bridal,' with se 
highly pi 



,rd?: 



' Saw 



my Father 



ights 

hos. Thus, my song, • Ken ye what Meg o* 
he mill has gotten ?' pleases mjseif so much, 
hat I cannot try my hand at another song to 
be air; so I shall not attempt it. 1 know 
fill laugh at all this; but "ilka man 



s his belt his 



= a,:. 



No. XLVII. 
xMR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. 
October, 1793. 



jutor in your public 



mghts 



honest fellow ; 
ore :he« 

giory. 



i: T Osi 



% fo» .1 



n.g rcj 



The faulty line in Logan-w 



econciled to the 
1 ihe ' Quaker's Wife,' though, by the 
;in old Highland gentleman, and a deep. 
juarian, tells me it is a (iaelic air, and 
>n by the name of * Lelger'm choss.' The 

following verses 1 hope will please jou, as an 

English song lo the air. 



Gregoira Rua-Ruth,' you will si 



* This will be found in the latter part of this 

f The Honourable A. Erskine, brother to 
Lord Keliy, whose melancholy death Mr 
Thomson had communicated in an excellent 
letter which he has suppressed. 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



Thii;e am I, my faithful fair, 
Thi:ie, uiy lovely Naney j 

Every pulse along my veius, 
Every roving fancy. 

To thy bosom lay uiy heart, 
There to throb and l3uguish; 

Though despair had wrung its c< 
That would heal its anguish. 

Take away these rosy lips, 
Rich wi'ih balmy treasure ; 

Turn away thine eyes of love, 
Lest 1 die with pleasure. 



What is life when v 
N.ght without a . 

Love's the cloudless 
Nature gay adorui 



iting love ? 
iniuier sun, 



Yonr objection to the English song I pro- 
posed for • John Anderson, uiy jo,' is certainly 
just. The following is by an old acquaintance 
of mine, and I think has merit- The song 
was never in print, which I think is so much 
i a y our favour. The more original good noc-try 
your collection cou tains, it certainly has so 
much the more meriu 

SONG, 

BV GAYIX TL'KXBL'J.I.. 

condescend, dear, charming mail!, 
My wreici.ed state to view ; 

A lender swain to love betray \1, 
Aud sad despair by you. 

White here all melancholy, 

.My passion I deplore, 
Yet, urged by stern resistless fate, 

I love thee more aud more. 

1 heard of love, and with disdain 
The urchin's power denied} 

I laugh 'd at every Dover's pain, 
Aud mock'd them when taey sigh'd : 

But how my state is alter'd ! 

Those happy days are o'er ; 
For all.thy unrelenting hate, 

I lore thee more and more. 

O yield, illustrious beauty, yield, 

No longer let me mourn ; 
And though victorious in the field, 

Thy captive do not scorn. 

Let generous pity warm thee, 

My wouted peace restore ; 
And grateful I shall bless thee stilt, 

And love thee more and more. 

The following address of Turnbuli to the 
nightingale will suit, as an English song, to 
the air, ■ There was a lass aud she was fair. ' 
By the bye, Turubull has a great many songs 
in MS. which I can command, if you like his 
manner. Possibly, as he is au old friend of 
mine, 1 may be prejudiced in his favour j but 
I like some of his pieces very much. 



THE NIGHTINGALE. 
BY G. TOUTBDU.. 

Thou sweeUst minstrel of the grove. 
That ever tried the plaintive strain, 

Awake thy tender tale of love, 

And soothe a poor forsaken swain. 

For though the muses deijjn to aid, 
A:-d teach him, smoothly to complain 

Yet Delia, charming, cruel maid, 
Is deaf to her forsaken swain. 

All day, with Fashion's gaudy sous, 
In sport she wanders o'er the plain ; 

Their tales approves, and slii! she shuns 
The notes of her forsaken swain. 

When evening shades obscure the sky, 
And bring the solemn hours again, 

Begin, sweet bird, thy uieiody. 
And soothe a poor forsaken swain. 

I shall just transcribe another of Turnbul 
which would go charmingly to 'Lewie li 
dou. ' 



BV G. TL'RX3l'LL, 

Let me wander where I will. 
By shady wood or winding rill ; 
Where the swee:e=t .May-born ilowers 
Paint the meadows, deck the bowers} 
Where the linnet's early song 
Echoes sweel the woods among : 
Let me wander where I will, 
Laura hauuts my fancy still. 

If at rosy dawn I choose 

To indulge the smiling muse ; 

If i court some cool retreat, 

To avoid the noontide heat: 

If beneath the moon's pale ray, 

Through unfrequented wilds i strRy : 

L:t me wanier where I will, 

Laura hauuts my fancy still. 



Wheu at night the drowsy god 
Waves his sleep-compe.lniic rod, 
Ana ;o Fancy's wakeful eyes, 
1j:l1= eeitiCia: visions rise; 
While with boundless joy I rove 
Through the fairy lanu of love: 
Let me wander where I will, 
Laura haunts my faucy still. 



BURNS. -CORRESPONDENCE. 



No. XLV1II. 
MR THOMSON TO MR BURNS. 
7th Nov. 1793. 



hand, 



MY DEAR SIB, 
After so long a silence, it gave 
pleasure to recognise your well-kj 
for I liad begun to be apprehensive that ail 
was not well with you. I am happy to find, 
however, that your silence did not proceed 
from that cause, and that you have got among 
tht ballads once more. 

1 have to thank you for your English song 
to ' Leiger 'in choss,' which I think extremely 
good, although the colouring is warm. Your 
friend Mr Turnbull's songs have doubtless 
considerable merit ; and as yon have the com- 
mand of his manuscripts, 1 hope you may find 
out some that will answer as English songs to 
the airs yet unprovided. 



No. XLIX. 
MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. 



December, 1793. 
ie following verses to 



Husband, husband cease your stri 
Nor longer idly rave, sir ; 

Though I am your wedded wife, 
Yet lam not your slave, sir. 



If 'tis still the lordly word, 
Service and obedience ; 

I'll desert my sovereign lord, 
And so, good bye, allegiance 



My poor heart then break it must, 
My last hour I'm near it ; 

When you lay me in (be dust, 

Think, think, how you will bear i 

«' I will hope and trust in heaven, 

Nancy. Nancy ; 
Strength to bear it will be given. 

My spouse Nancy." 

Well, sir, from the silent dead, 
Still I'll try to daunt you; 

E>er round your midnight bed 
Horrid spri-ee shall haunt you. 



•« I'll wed another, like my dear 

Nancy, Nancy, 
Then all hell will fly for fcar. 

My bpouse Nancy," 

Air—*' The Sutor's Dochter. '* 

Wilt thou be my dearie : 

Wheu sorrow wrings thy gentle heart, 

Wilt thou let me cheer thee \ 

By the treasure of my soul, 

That's the love I bear thee ! 






i hat, 



ail t 



my t 



ily thou 



v thou. I swe 
11 ever be uiy 


deaHe 1 ! ™ 




sie, say thou lo'es me ; 
f thou wilt na be my ai 
na thou'h refuse me ; 




u for thine n.a\ choose 
me, lassie, quickly die, 
sting that thou lo'es me 
sieietmequi.kl.vdie, 
stuig that thou lo'es rue 


ne 



MR THOMSON TO MR BURNS. 
Edinburgh, 7lh April, 1794. 

MY DEAR SIR, 
Owing to the distress of our friend for the loss 
of his child, at the time of his receding your 
admirable but melancholy letter, 1 had not an 
opportunity till lately of perusing it.* How 
sorry am I to find Burns saying, •« Canst 
thou not minister to a mind diseased ?" while 
he is delighting oihers from the one end of the 
island to the other. Like the hypochondriac 
who went to consult a physician upon his 
case: Go, says the doctor, and see the famous 
Carlini, who'keeps all Paris in good humour. 
Alas ! sir, replied the patient, 1 am that un- 
happy Carlini ! 






il i 



ogether plec 



other it will soon take place; but yoi 
chanalian challenge almost frightens m 



■all- 



■ak dri 



, for I 



tied by the good opinion 
of his talents, lie has just begun a skeich 
from your Cotter's S turday N ght, and if it 
pleases himself in the design, he will probably 
etch or enrrave it. In subjects of the pastor- 
al or humorous kind, he is perhaps unrivalled 
by any artist living. He fails a little in giving 
beauty and grace to his females, and his co- 
louring is sombre, otherwise his paintings and 
drawings would be in greater request. 

I like the music of the J Sutor's Dochfer,' 
and will consider whether it shall be added to 
the last volume ; your verses to it are pretty ; 
but your humorous English to suit • Jo Janet* 
is illimitable. What think you of the air, 



* A letter to Mr Cunningham to be found 
iu p. 155. 



2S4 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



« Within a mile of Edinburgh :' It has al- 
ways struck me as a modern English imitation ; 
but is said to be Oswald's, and is so much 
liked, thai I believe I must include it. The 
»erses are little better than '« naroby patiiby, " 
Do jcu consider it worih a stanza or two .* 



MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. 



MY DEAR SIR, 
I return you the plates, with which I am high- 
ly pleased; 1 would humbly propose, instead 
of the youriker knitting stockings, to put a 
stock and hi.ru into his hands. A friend ov 
mine, who is positively the ablest judge on the 
subject I have ever met with, and, though an 
unknown, is yet a superior artist with the 
burin, is quite charmed with Allan's man- 
ner: I got him a peep of the Gentle Shep- 
herd, and he pronounces Allan a nii;st original 
artist of gre;.t excellence. 

For my part, 1 Look on Mr Allan's choosing 
my favourite poem for his subject, to be o:.e 

I am quite vexed at Pleyel's being cooped 
up in France, as it will put au entire stop to 
our work. Now, and for six or seven months, 
"I shall be quite in tong," as you shall see 
by and bye. 1 got an air, pretty enough, 
eomposed by Lady Elizabeth Heron of Heron, 
which she calls « The banks of Cree. ' Cree 
is a beautiful romantic stream ; and as her 
ladyship is a particular friend of mine, I have 
wrhteu the folio wing song. 

BANKS OF CREE. 

Here is -he glen, and here the bower, 
All underneath the birchen shade ; 

The village bell has told the hour,— 
O what can stay my lovely maid! 

'Tis not Maria's whispering call ; 

'Tis but the balmy-breathing gale, 
Mix'd with some warbler's dying tall 



| work to be at a dead step, until the allies set 
j our Modern Orpheus at liberty from tbeeavage 

t-.ra.uom of oemocratic discords! Alas the 
day! And woe's me! That auspicious 
period pregnant with the happ.ness of mil- 

I have presented a copy of your songs !o the 
daughter of a much-vaiued, and ir.ucli-hon- 
noured friend of mine, Mr Graham of Fin try. 
I wrote on the blank side of the title page, the 
following address to the young lady. 

Here, where the Scottish muse immortal 
live.-, 
In sacred strains and tuneful uumlers 
jo.nM, 
Accept the gift; though humble he wLo 
gives, 
Rich is the tribute of the gTateful mind. 

So may no ruffian f feeling in thy breast, 
Discordant jar thy bosom chords an:ong ; 

But peace attune thy gentle >oul to re»i, 
Or lore ecstatic wake lis seraph song. 

Or pirv's notes in luxury of tears, 

A> modest want the tale of woe reveals ; 

While conscious virtue all the strain endeare, 
Anu heaven-i;orn piety her sanction teals. 



MR THOMSON TO MR BURNS. 

Edinburgh, lOlh August, 1793. 

MY DEAR SIB, 
I owe you an apology, for having so long de- 
layed to acknowledge" the favour of your last. 
I fear it will be as you say. I shall have no 
more songs from Pleyel till France and we 
are friends : but nevertheless, 1 am very desir- 
ous to be prepared with the poetry, and as the 
season approaches in which your muse of 
Coila visits you, I trust I shall, as formerly, be 
frequently gratifieu with the result of ycur 
atucrous and tender interviews ! 



It is Maria's voice I hear ! 

So calls the woodlark in the grove 
His little, faithful mate to cheer ; 

And art thou come ! and art thou tri 
O welcome dear to love and me 1 

And let us all our vows renew, 
Along the iluwery banks of Cree. 



MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. 

SO/A August, 1794. 
The last evening, as I was straying out and 
thinking of 'O'er the hills and far awa, ' I 
j spun the following stanza fur it ; but whether 
j my spinning will deserve lo be laid up in store 
: like the precious thread of the silk-worm, or 
; brushed to the devil like the vile manufacture 
of the spider, I leave, my dear sir, to jour 



No. LII. 
MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. 
July, 179S. 
Is there no news yet of Pleyel ? Or is your 



* A portion of this letter has been left cut, 
for reasons that will easily be imagined. 

t It were to have been wished that instead 
of ruffian feeling, the bard had used a less rug» 
ged epithet, e. g. ruder 



BURNS. -CORRESPONDENCE. 



usual candid criticism. I was pleased with 
several lines in it, at iirst; but I own, that 
now it appears rather a flimsy business. 

This is just a hasty sketch, until I see whe- 
ther it be worth a critique. We have many 
sailor songs ; but, as far as I at present recol- 
lect, they are mostly the effusions of the jovial 
sailor, not the wailing* of his lovelorn mis- 
tress. I must here make one sweet excep- 
tion—' Sweet Annie frae the Sea-beach came. ' 
Now for the song. 

ON THE SEAS AND FAR AWAY. 

Tune— « O'er the Hills,' &c. 

How can my poor heart be glad, 
When absent from my sailor lad ; 
How can I the thought forego. 
He's on the seas to meet the foe ; 
Let me wander, let me rove, 
Still my heart is with my love ; 
Nightly dreams and thoughts by day 
Are with him that's far away. 



On the seas and far away, 
On stormy seas and far away, 
IS'ightly dreams and thoughts by day 
Are ave with him that's far away. 



When in summer's noon I 
As weary flocks around me 
Haply in this scorching sun 
My sailor's thundering at hi 
Bullets, spare my only joy 1 
Pullets, spare my darling boy ! 



gun: 



, _le do with ; 

Spare but birr 

On the se 



that's far a 



At the starless midnight hour, 
When winter rules with boundless poi 
.As the storms the forest tear, 
And thunders rend the howling air, 
Listening to the doubling roar, 
Surging on the rocky shore, 
A'l I can— I weep and pray, 
For his weal that's far away. 
On the seas, &c 

Peace, thy olive wnnd extend, 
And bid wild war his ravage end, 
ill) brother man to meet, 



s a bn 



Jhen T-.aj heaven, wiih prosp'r 

Fill my suitor's welcome .-a. Is, 

To my arms their ch:irgH convey 

drar lad that's far away. 

On the seas, &«. 



M 



o abuse this song, but do i 



MR THOMSON TO MR BURNS. 

Edinburgh, lGlh Sept. 1794. 

MS DEAR 8 IB, 

u have anticipated my opinion of ' On thi 
sand far away;' I do not think it one 
tr very happy productions, though it c 
itauzas that are worihy of 



of 



.vptat 



The s-cond is the leas', to my liking, part.- 
cularly, • Bullets, spare my only joy. ' Con- 
found the bullets. It might perhaps be ob- 
jected to the third verse, ' Ai the starless mid- 
night hour, ' that it has too much grandeur 
of imagery, and that greater simplicity of 
thought would have better suited the charac- 
ter of a sailor's sweetheart. The tune, it must 
be remembered, is of the brisk cheerful kind. 
Upon the whole, therefore, in my humble opi- 
nion, the song would be bet;er adapted to the 
tune, if it consisted only of the lirst and last 
verses, with the choruses. 



LYI. 

MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. 

Sept. 1794. 
1 shall withdraw my ' On the seas and fa: 
away' altogether ; it is unequal, and unworthy 
cf the wo k. Making a poem is like begetting 
a son ; you cannot know whether \ou hive a 

the world and try him. 

For t'jjit reason 1 send you the offspring of 
my bra'm, abortions and ull ; and as such, pray 
look over them and forgive them, and bum 
them.* 1 am flattered at jour adopting « Ca' 
(he yewes to the knowes,' as it was owing :o 
me 'that it ever saw the l'ght. About seven 
years airo I was well acquainted with a worthy 
little fellow of a clergyman, a Mr C!unz)e, 
who sung it charmingly ; and at my request, 
Mr Clarke took it down from his" sing.ng. 
When 1 gave it to Johnson, I acid d some 
stanzas to the song, and mended others, but 
still it will not do for von. In a solitary stroll 
which 1 took to-Cayi! 1 tried my hand on a 
few pastoral l ; ne-, following up the idea of the 
chorus, which 1 would preserve. Here it is, 
with all its crudities and imperfections ou its 



3a' t'le yewes to the knowes, 
3a' them wliare the heather grows, 
2a' them v, hare the buruie rows, 
My bouiiie dearie. 



* This Virgilian order of the poet should. 
I think, be disobeyed wiih respect to the song 
in question, th<- second stanza excepted. — 
Note by Mr Thomson. 

Doctor differ. The objection to the tsccon>l 
stapza dees not strike the Editor 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



Hark the mavis* evening sar.g 
Sounding Clouden's. woods amang)* 
Then a-faulding let us gang, 
Mj bonnie dearie. 
Ca' the, &c. 

We'll gae down by Clouden side. 
Through the hazels spreading wide, 
O'er the waves that sweetly glide 
To the moan sae clearly. 
Ca' the, &c. 

Yonder Ciouden's silent towers. 
Where at moonshine midnight hours, 
O'er the dewy bending flowers, 
Fairies dar.ee sae cheery. 
Ca' the, &c 

Ghaist norht.gle shalt thou fear, 
Thou'rt to love and heaven sae near, 
Nocht of ill may come thee near, 
My bonnie dearie. 
Ca' tbe, 4 c. 

Fair and lovely as thou art. 
Thou hast stown my very heart ; 
lean die — bu: eanaa part, 
Mv bonnie dearie. 
Ca' the, &c. 



No. LV1I, 
t BURNS TO MR THOMSON. 



Such was my Chloris' bonnie face, 
When first her bonnie face I saw, 

Aud aye my Chloris' dearest charm, 
She says she lo'es me best of a'. 

Like harmony her motion : 

Her pretty ancle is a spy 
Betraying fair proportion, 

Wad make a saint forpet the 9ky, 
Sae warming, sae charming, 

Her faultless form and graceful air ; 
Ilk feature— auld Nature 

Declared that she could do nae rnair : 
Hers are the willing chains o' love, 

By conquering beauty's sovereign law ; 
And aye my Chloris' dearest charm, 

Shesays she lo'es me best of a'. 

J-et others love (he city, 

And gaudy show at sunny noon ; 
Gie me ihe lonely valley, 

The dewy eve, and rising moon, 
Fair beam tig and streaming, 

Her silver light the boughs amang ; 
While falling, recalling, 

The amorous thrush concludes his sang ; 
There, dearest Chloris, wilt thou rove 

By wimpling burn aud leafy shaw, 
V Ami hear uiy vows o' truth a. id love, 
I Ana say thou lo'es me best of a'. 

Not to compare small things with great, ray 
j taste in music is like the mighty Frederick of 
| Prussia's taste ill painting: we are fold that 
j be frequently admired what the connoisseurs 
I decried, and always without any hypocrisv 
mfessed his admiration. I am sensible that 






Seplenib 


er, 1794. 


Do you know a blackguard Irsh 


ong, called 


« Onagh's Water-fa 1 1 "r ' The air 




and I have often regretted the wa 


it of decent 


verses to it. It is too much, at 


east for my 




.it ever* ef- 


fort of hers shall have merit ; still 


I liiiuk" that 


it is better to ha»e mediocre vet 


ses to a fa- 



; be in 
opleof u:id:s 



t and v 



pie I have all along proceeded in 
Musical Museum, and as that public 
its last volume, I intend the follow 
to the air above mentioned, lor that ' 



Tune — *' Onagh's Water-fill. ' 



rere her ringlets, 
ows of a darker hue, 
v o*er-arcbing 

fiing e'en o' Lonnie blue, 
sae wyiiv, 



s woe ; 



\s;:re, 



" Tbe river Clouden, a tritulary stream t 



vated ia=:e can t:;d no merit in my favourite 
tunes. Sti.l, because I am cheaply pleased, 
is that any reason why I should deny myself 
that pleasure ? Many of our strathspeys * an- 
cient and modern, give me the most exquisite 
enjoyment, where you and o:her judges would 
.:.-•' ring disgust. For instance, 1 
am ju*t now making verses for • Rothiemur- 
ehe's Rant,' an air which puts me in raptures ; 
and in fact, unless I be pleased with the tune, 
I never can make verses to it. Here 1 have 
Clarke on my side, who is a judge that I will 
pit against any of you. * Rothiemurche, ' he 
say=, '• is an air both original aud ceaut.ful;" 
and on his recomendation I have taken the first 
part of the tune for a chorus, and the fourth or 
last part for the song. I a:n but two stanzas 
deep in the work, and possibly you may thir.k, 
and justly, thai the poetry is as little worth 
your attention as tiie music* 

I :;^ve begun, anew, « Let me in this ae 
night- ' Do you think that we ought to retain 
the old chorus ? 1 think we must retain both 
the old chorus and the first stanza of the old 
song. I do not altogether like the third line 
of the first stanza, but cannot aher it to please 
myself. I am jus: three stanzas deep iu it. 
Would you have tue " denouement " to be sue. 



* In the original follow here two stanzas of 
a song, beginning, *■ Lafste v. i' the lint-white 
locks ;' which will be found at full length if- 






BURNS—CORRESPONDENCE. 



£87 



cessfui or otherwise ; should she "let him in' ' 
or not. 

Did you not once propose ' The Sow*6 tail 
to Geordie, ' as an air for jour work ; I am 
quite delighted with it; but I acknowledge 
that is no mark of its real excellence. I once 
Bet about verses for it, which I meant to be in 
the alternate way of a lover and his mistress 
chanting together. L have r.ol the pleasure of 
knowing .Mrs Thomson's Christian name, and 
yours, lam afraid, is rather burlesque for senti- 
ment, else I had meant to have made you the 
nero and heroine of the li: tie piece. 

How do you like the following epigram, 
which I wroie the other day on a lovely young 
girl's recovery from a fever '! Doctor Maxwell 
was the phy-ioian who seemingly saved her 
from the grave, and Id h.m I address the fol- 
lowing. 

TO DR MAXWELL, 

OX MISS JESSIE SXAIG'i RECOVBItV.. 

Jilaxwell, if merit here you crave, 

That merit I deny : 
You save fair Jessy from the grave ! 

An angel could not die ! 

God grant you patience with this stupid 



MR THOMSON TO MR BURNS. 

I perceive the sprightly muse is now attend- 
ant upon her ravouriie poet, whose "wood- 
notes wild" are become as enchanting as ever. 
« She fays she '.oes me best of a', ' is one of 
the pleasantest table 6ongs I have seen, and 
henceforth shall be mine when the song is go- 
ing round. I'll give Cunningham a copy, he 
can more powerfully proclaim its merit. I am 
far from undervaluing your t:is:e for the strath- 
spey music ; on the contrary, 1 think it liigl " 
animating and agreeable, and that some of the 
strathspeys, when graced with such verses as 
yours, will make very pUasing songs, in the 
same way that rough Christians are tempered 
and softened by lovely woman, without whom, 
you know, they had been brutes. 

I am clear for having the « Sow's tail, ' par- 
ticularly as your proposed verses to it are so ex- 
tremely promising. Geordie, as you observe, 
is a name only lit for burlesque cornposiriou. 
Mrs Thomson's name (Katharine) is not at 
all poetical. Retain Jeanie, therefore, and 
make the other Jamie, or any other that 
sounds agreeable. 

Your « Ca* the yewes,» is a precious little 
moreeau. Indeed I am perfectly astonished 
nnd charmed with the enuiess variety of your 
fancy. Here let me ask you whether you 
nerer seriously turned your thoughts upon 
dramatic wilting. That is a held worthy of 
your genius, in which it might shine forth in 
all its splendour. One or two successful pieces 
upon the London stage would make your for- 
taue. The rage at present is for* musical 
drama-. ; fen or none of those which have ap- 



| peared since the ' Duenna,' possess much poet- 
I ical merit : there is littie iu the conduct of 
; the fable, or in the dialogue, to interest the 
! audience. They are chiefly vehicles for musis 
J and pageantry. I think sou might produce a 
cum.c opera iu three acts, which would live by 
the poetrs, at the same time that it would be 
proper to take e\ ery assistance from her tune- 
ful sister, Part of the songs of course would 
j be to our favourite Scottish airs ; the rest might 
be left with the London composer — Storace 
for Drury Lane, or Shield fur Covent gartien ; 
both of them very able and populr.r musicians. 
1 believe that interest and manoeuvring are 
often necessary to have a drama brought ou : 
so it may be with the namby pamly tribe of 
flowery scribblers; but were you to address 
Mr Sheridan himself by letter, and send hi:n 
a dramatic piece, I am persuaded he would, 
for the honour of genius, g.ve it a fair and 
candid trial. Excuse me for obtruding these 
[nuts upon your consideration. * 



MR THOMSON TO MR BURNS. 
Edinburgh, lllh Oclober, 1704. 
The last eight days have been devoted to the 
re-examination of the Scottish collections. I 
have read and sung, audliuoled, and consider- 
ed, till I am half blind and wholly stupid. 
The few airs 1 have added, are inclosed. 

Peter Pindar has at length sent me all the 
songs I expected from him, which are in gene- 
ral elegant' and beautiful. Have you heard of 
a London collection of Sjottish airs and songs, 
just published Ly Mr Ritson an Englishman. 
1 shall seud you a copy. His introductory 
essay on the subject is curious, and evinces great 
reading and research, but does uot dec de -he 
question as to the origin of our melodies ; 
though he shows clearly that Mr Tytl.-r, in his 
ingenious dissertation, has adduced no sort of 
proof of the hypothesis he wished to establish ; 
and that his classification of the airs, according 
to the eras when they were composed, is mere 
fancy and conjecture. On John Piakerton, 
Esq. he has no mercy ; tut consigns him to 
damnation! He snarls at my publication, on 
the score of Pindar being engaged to write songs 
for it ; uncandidly and unjustly leaving it to be 
inferred that the songs of Scottish writers had 
been sent a-packing to make room for Peter's ! 
Of you he speaks with some respect, but gives 
you a passing hit or two, for daring to dress up 
a little some old foolish songs for the Museum. 
His sets of i'ie Scottish airs are taken, he says, 
from the oldest collections and best author- 
ities : many of them, however, have such a 
strange aspect, and are so unlike the sets which 
are sung by every person of taste, old or young, 
iu town or country, that we can scarcely recog. 
uize the features of our favourites. B\ going to 
the oldest collections of our music, it does nut 



* Our bard had before received the sama 
dvice, and certainly took it so far into con- 
iteration as to have cast about for a subject, 



238 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



Follow that we find the melodies in their ori- | 
giual state. These melodies had been pre- 
berveJ, we know not how long, by oral com- j 
munication, before being collected and printed : : 
and as different persons sang the same air verv 
differently, according to their accurate or con- 
fused recollection of it, so even supposing the 
first collectors to have possessed the industry, 
the taste and discernment to choose the best 
they could hear, (which is far from certain,) 
still it must evidently be a chance, whether the 
collections exhibit any of the melodies in ilia 
state they were first composed. In selecting 
the melodies for mi own collection, 1 have been 
as much guided by the living as by the dead. 
Where these differ-d. I preferred the sets th-.t 
appeared to me the most simple and beautiful, 
and the most generally approved ; and, without 
meaning any compliment tc my own capability 
of choosing, or speakii.g of tile pains 1 fa 



taken, I flatter myself "that 

found equally freed from vulgar 
one baud, and ailected graces or 



To descend to business ; if you like my ide«t 
of « Wnen she cam ben she bobber, ' the fol- 
lowing stanzas of mine, altered a little from 
what they were formerly when set to another 
air, may perhaps do instead of worse stanzas. 

SAW YE MY PHELY, 

Quasi dicat Pnillis.) 

Tune— • When she cam ben she bobbet. ' 

O saw ye my dear, my Phely ? 
e mv dear, m'v Pheiy ? 



vill be 
on lh 2 



What stivs she, my dearest, my Phely ? 
What says she, my dearest, mv Pbely ? 
She lets thee to wit that she Las thee "forgot. 
And for ever disowns thee, her Willie, 



MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. 



19iA October, 179 



S1V DEAR FHIESD, 
By this morning's post I hi 
in general, I hi-hly approve 



of ii 



. j but the old ■ 
take a look at the 
do not think it 
•Rosliu Castle' 



Ciarke 



eyot 



uhoie 



Lament 



iscellaneous remarks. 'The 
iseum), is my composition : 
n down from Mrs Bi 
l known in the West C 
ards are trash. By tl 
une again, and tell m< 
s the original from j 
composed. The i 



i by to-day's fit, 
u would call on him and tak; 
opinion iu general : you know his taste 
standard. He will return here again in a < 

or two, so, please do not miss asking for him. \ lirst in the Edinbi 
j I hope he will do, persuade you to i to the Edii 



icular, for the first ivn 
;actly tfle old air. « Strsthallan's 
mine; the music is by our right- 
deservedly well-beloved, Allan 
Masterton. * Donocht-head, ' 

'.d give ten pounds it were, it appeared 
1 Herald; 
paper 



:rs xiurus 

Vest Coun- 

3y the bye, 

1 me if you 

om which 

:ond 

hree* 

an's 

ght- 

llan 

a'red 

3 the 



adopt my favourite, " Craigie-burn-wood. ' in j Newcastle post.mark on iUf * Whistle c 
your selection : It is as great a favourite of his I 

as of mine. The lady on whom it was made is | " 

one of the finest women in Scotland: and, in j * . The Posie' will be found afterwards 
fact, (entre nous.) is in a manner to me what ; This and the other poems of which he speaks, 
—- 's Eliza was to him, a mistress, a friend, had appeare' ' 

s simplicity of T . had inuui 

i any of yoi- I 



a the gui! 
Platonic* love. (Now don't 

elishmaclaver about it among o 
tances.) I assure you that to my I 
you are indebted for many of youi 
Do yon think thai ' 



hive 






any 



■ The i 

poem so hi 

Keen bh 



a!y praised by 
vs the wind o 



Burns. Hei 



iv. is 



horse routine of e 
*ith life, and love, 
with embus 
equal to the genius o 



ober, gin- 



, and joy — could fire him 
',t him with pathos, 
r book -No! no! — 
more than ordinary 
g ; to ce in some degree equal to your 
diviner airs — do vou imagine I fast and pray 
for tbe divine emanation ? Tout au contrail-?. 
I have a glorious recipe ; the very one that for ■ 
fcis own use was invented by the diviuity of j 
healing and poetry, when first he piped to the 
flacks of Admetus. I put myself in a regimen j 
of admiring a tine woman ; in proportion to ttie 
adorabiliiy of her charms, in propor:ion you 
•re delighted with my verges. The lightniag 
fif her eje is tbe godhead of Parnassus, and the 
witchery of her smile, the diviuity ot Helicon! I 



Donocht-head,* 
hrough the dalt» 
The Gaberlunzie tirl= my snec'i. 

And shivering tells his waefu' tale. 
" Cauld is ttie night, O let rue in, 
And dinna let your minstrel fa', 
And dinna let his winding 5 heet 
Be nathing but a wreath o' snaw. 

«' Full ninety winters hae I seen. 

And pip'd'wbar iror-cocks whirring flew, 
And mony a day I've danced, I ween, 

To lilts which from my drone I blew.'' 
My Eppie waked, and soon the cried, 

"Get up, Guidman, and let him in; 
For wed ye ken the winter night 

NVuS short when he began his din'. 

* A mountain in the north. 



BURNS.- CORRESPOND CNCE. 



Is mine ; the music said tc be by a 
.lobn Bruce, a celebrated violin player in Dum- 
fries, about Ibe beginning of th'is century. 
This I k:iow; Bruce, who was an honest man, 
ihough a red-wud Highlandman, constantly 
claimed it ; and by all the ol<l musical people 
here is believed (o be the author of it. 

« Andrew and his cully gun. ' The song to 
which this is set in the Museum, is mine ; and 
was composed on Miss Eupheinia Murray, 
of Lintrose, commonly and deservedly called, 
the flower of Straihmore. 

* How Ian? and dreary is the night.' I met 
with some such words in a collection of songs 
somewhere, which 1 altered and enlarged ; and 
to please you and lo suit your favourite air, 
I have taken a stride or two across my room, 
and have arranged it anew, as you will fiud on 
the other tiage. 

« Time -Cau'.dkail in Aberdeen.' 

How lung and dreary is t! e night, 

W lieu £ am frae my dearie ; 
I restless lie frae e'en to mom, 



For oh, her lanely nights are la: g ; 

And oh, her dreams are eerie ; 
And ol), her widow'd heart is sair, 

Thai's absent frae her dearie 

When I think on the lightsome days 
I spent wi' tl ee, my dearie ; 

And now what sea* Between us rear, 
How can 1 be but eerie ? 
For oh, &c. 

How slow ye move, ye heavy hours ; 

The joyless C?.\ how uveur; : 

It -Acs na sae, ye glinted lye, 

\\ hen I « 



at the s; 



st charmingly, that I shall 
never bear 10 see any of her songs sent ii.io 
; (he world as naked ■.- Mr What-d'ye-culi-um 
, has done n hi.- Lo don collection.*'. 
j These English ^.g S -ravel me to death. 
; I have not that command of the language that 
■ I hive of my native tongue. I haye been at 
\ « Duncan Gray,' to dress it in English, but all 
1 can do is deplorably slupid. For instance. 

Tune—* Duncan Cray. " 

Let itot women e'er complain 

Of i: constancy in love; 
Let not women e'er complain, 

Fickle man is apt lo rove ; 
Look abroad through Nature's range; 
Nature's mighty law is change ; 
Ladies would it not be strange; 

Mjii should then a monster prove .' 

Mark the winds, .->nd mark the skies ; 

Ocean's tbi , and ocean's flow : 
Sun and moon but set lo rise, 

Hound and round lie seasons go : 
Why then ask of silly man, 
To oppose great Nature's plan ? 
We'll te constant while we can- 
Since the above, I have he?n out in the 
soun'ry taking a dinner with a friend, where 
[ met wiih ihe lady whom I mentioned in the 
iecond page, of U.is odds-and-ends of a letter. 
As usual, I got imo song ; ; 
ihe following. 



THE LOVER'S MORNING SALL'TE 
TO HIS MISTRESS. 



For oh, ice. 



I diff« 



S; •:_•■ i. 



My Fppie's voice, vo-.v it's sweet, 
liven ihough she bans and so.au ids a 

But when it's tuned to sorrow's tale, 
O, bailh, its doubly dear to me! 

Come in, au 



'il steer my lire 
. I or.nie flame : 

iae far frae ban 



Sad parly-strife o'crl 

And, weeping at ihe evi 
i wander through a * 

This affecting poem i 



rtlij of Eura 






Tell me how you like this 
your idea of the expression of the turn 
is, lo me, a great deal of lenderm 
Von cauiiu!, in my opinion, dispells 
lass to your addenda airs. A lady of my ac- 
quaintance, a noted performer, plays 



Sleep'st thou 

Rosy morn now litis 6 

Numbering ilka bud whi 
Waters wi' the lears t 
Now through (he leaTj 
And bj the reekine flo 

Wild Nature' 
'Ihe liutwh 
Chants e'er 



Deil ;ak he wars.' 
afc'sl thou, fairesl c 



, freely, gladly &tra 



Ihe 



. the sky 



While the sun. and thou an': 

Phoebus gilding (he brow o' nir 
Banishes ilka darksome shad 

Nature gladdening and adoruiu 
"u.e*h to ice my lovely maid. 



* Mr ttrtson. 



v to (he streaming fountain, 
:p t'.e heathy mountain, 

' ', freely, wildly. 



The hart, hind, 
un, sTaj . 

In twining haze! l,..i 



2ixy 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



tV'ien absent f.ae my ("air, 

The mu.ky shDdes o' cars 
Wi'h siafDss -loom o'ercast tuy sullen sky ; 

But wben in beauty's ligrht, 

She me- s my ravish 'd sight, 
[ u jb. o ;. '- ery heart 

Her beaming glories dart ; 
'Tis then I ws.ke to lire, tj light, and joy.* 

If you honour my verses by setting the air to 
thfiu", I will vamp up the old sot>g. and make 
it Et glish enough to be understood. 

I inclose you a musical curiosity, an East 
Indicn air, «h : cb.y"u would swear was a Scot- 
tish one. I k:iow the authenticity of it, as the 
gentleman who brought it over is a particular 
acquaintance of mine. Do preserve me the 
copy I send you, as ii is the only one I have. 
Gierke has set a bass to it, and I intend put- 
tin? it into ibe Musical Museum. Here fol- 
few ibe verses I intend for it. 

THE AULD MAX. 



On winter blasts awa : 
Yet maiden M-y, in rich array, 
Agaii seal! br; -.g rV.er, a". 

Bet my white now, nae kindly lho« 

Shnil melt the snaws of age ; 
My trunk >f eild, bat buss or beild, 

Sink-- in ime's wintry rcge. 
Oh, age hj.s weary days, 

-> o' sleepless pain ! 
Thou golden time o' youthfu' prime, 

Why com'st thou not again ! 
I would be obliged to vou if you would pro- 
cuie me a sight of Ritscn's coliection of Eng- 
lish soners, which* you mention in your letter, j 
I will thank you for another information, and ' 
tb-t as speedily as ycu please : whether this \ 
Miserable drawling hotch-potch epistle has r.ot ! 
■Mnpiel v tired you of u>y correspondence, i 



MR THOMSON TO MR BURNS. 

Edinburgh, 27,'A Odaier, 1794 

an sensible, r.iy dear friend, ihr.t a ret:;-. 

>et c&n no more exist withont bis m str 

tati L-'-r meat. I wish I knew the adcra 

te, whose bright »-yes and crhc 

i>e so often enra; '"'.red the Sec 

iit I night drij.k her sweet health when 



* Variation. 

When frae my Chl-.ris parted* 
£>ed, eh^eriess. i re, c^-heartrd, 
ILen night's gloomy shades, c'ottdi , dark, 
o'ercast my sky : 

uut v he. she char:; = " y stg'ut, 
in prid? of beauty's light, 
When thro' my very heart 
Her beaming glories dart ; 

T;s tLeo, 'tis then I wake to life and joy. 



toast is going round. ' Crsigie-burn wood 
must certainly be aiiopted into my family, s'n- 
she 1*9 the object of the song ; but in the n=>.n 
of decency, 1 must beg a new chorus verse fro* 
you. * C to be lying beyond thee, dearie,' ;-» 
perhaps a consummation to be wished, but <} 
not do for singing in the company of ladies. 
The songs in your l?st v, iii do ;, ou lasting crec , 
and suit the respective airs ciif.r 
p? .racily of your opi ion with respect to ; 
add tional airs. The idea of sending them :. 
to the world naked as they we»e born was l. 
generous. Tney must all be clothed and mug 
tlece t cur friend Clarke. 

I find I am antic pate.d by tb? friendl. Co. 
ningham, in sending jou Rstson's Scottish c<.. 
lection. Permit me, therefore, to present jq 
with bis English collection, which you will u 
I do not find his histo 
ca! es^ay on Scottish song interesting. Ye- 
auecdoles and miscellaneous remarks will,! 
am sure, be much more so. Alia 
sketched a charming desism from Magsie ].&• 
cer. She is dancing with such spirit as > 
electrify ihe piper, who seems almost danci* 
too, while he is playing with the most exqu 
site glee. 

I am much inclined to get a small copy, ad 
to have it engraved in the style cf Ritscus 

P. S. — Pray, what do your anecdotes 
concerning • Maggie Lauder ': * was she a 
personage, and cf what rank? You wc 
fcinelj spier for her if you ca'd at AnsUat 



No. LXII. 



MR DUfi.XS TO MR THOMSON. 

November, 17S4. 
Many thanks to ycu, my dear sir, for vcl- 
preseut : it ; s s bo;>k of the utmost important 
to me. 1 Lav? yesterday begun my auecdotci 
&c. for vonr work. I intend drawing it up ,i 
the form of a letter to \oa, which w I save ■ 
fr"in the tedious >'u!l business of" s> sternal! 
arrangement, 'meed, as all I have to say sap 
sists of unconnected remarks, anecdotes, scraps, 
old songs, &c it would be impossible to gi»t 
the work n beginning, a middle, and an end ; 
which the cri.ics insist to Le absolutely neces- 
sary ir. a work.* In my lest, I re id ) on my 
oljection3 to the scng you bad selected for • My 
lodging is ou the cold ground.' On my visit 
j to my fair Cbloris (that is the 
peeiic name of the loveiy goddess cf my inspi- 
ration) she suggested an iaea, *hch I. i;i my 
return from the visit, wrought iMo the tol- 

r. n ark how green ibr groves, 
The rranrose banks how fair : 
The balmy pales r.w-.Ve ;Le iiowtrs, 



* It dees net appear whet' er Puros ccm- ""• 
pleted these anecdotes, c^c. Poote bsng of the 
, was fot.ud 
apers, and appears in p. 15. 



And o'e 
For nature 
To shepherds as (o kings 



BURNS. -CORRESPONDENCE. 
, I ween, 



Let minstrels sweep the skilfu* string 

In lordly lighted ha* : 
The shepherd stops his simple reed, 

Biythe, in the birkeu. shaw. 

The princely revel may survey 
Our rustic dance wi' scorn : 

But are their hearts as light as ours 
Beneath the milk-white thorn ? 

The shepherd, in the flowery glen, 
In shepherd's phrase will woo : 

The courtier tells a finer tale. 
But is his heart as true ? 



e like li 



e pu'd, to deck 



How do you like the simplicity and ten 
ness of this pastoral ? I think it pretty wi 

I like you for entering so candidly &n< 
kindly into the story of ma cliere amie. J 
sure you, I was never more in earnest in 
life, than in the account of that afl'air w 
1 sen! you in my la.-t. Conjugal love is a 
sion which I deeply feel and highly vener 
but, sonieiiow, it doe;, not make such a ri« 
in poesy as that other species of the passioi 
" Where Love is liberty, and nature law 
Musically speaking, the first is s 



of which the gamut h 



P ,ei 






welfare and happiness 
the first and inviolate 
my soul; and whatever pleas; 
wish for, or whatever might b< 
they would give me, yet, if the;, 
that h'.st principle, it is having t: 
at a dishonest price ; and justice 
geu<rrosiiy_disdains to purchase! 



nd confined, but 
sweet; while the last 
the intellectual raoduls- 
ul. Still, I am a very 
1 of the passion. The 
of the beloved object 



that pervade 



1 i 

forbids, ! 



ight 



ruing ove 


r old collections 


o pick out 


songs, 


v.hich 1 










nt I wan 


t; and wit 


h a little alterati 




to suit th 


e rhyme of 


the a 


r exactly, 


o give 


j them 


or your work. 


Where the 


songs 


ve hither 


o been but 


little 


noticed, no 


r have 






I th 


nk the suit 


a fair 


e. A so 


rig, which 


under the sam 


e first 


•se. you 


will find i 


i Ra 


ns.y's'i'e.i 


Table 




I have cut 


dew 


for an E 


usrlish 


sss to you 


r • Dainty 


Davie 


' us follows. 



SONG. 

ALTERED FROM AN OLD ENGLISH ONE. 

It was the charming month of May, 
When all the flowers were fresh and <ray, 
One morning, by the break of day, 
TLa youthful, charming Chloe; 



Lovely was she by the dawn, 

Youthful Chloe, charming Chloe, 

Tripping o'er the pearly lawn, 
The youthful, charming Chloe. 

The fe ither'd people you might see 
Perch 'd all around on every tree, 
In notes of sweetest melody 
They hail the charming Chloe. 

♦Til, painting gay the eastern skies,' 
The glorious sun began to rise, 
OutrivaFil by the radiant eyes 
Of youthful, charming Chloe. 
Lovely was she, &c. 

You may think meanly of this, but take a 
look at the bombast original, and you will be 
surprised that I have made so much of it. I 
have finished my song to ' Rothiemurche'a 
Rant ; ' and you have Clarke to cousult, as to 
the set of the air for singing. 



LASSIE 
Tune- 



Wl 

-• Rotliieinurche's Rant.' 

Chorus. 

wi' (he lint-white locks, 
ie lassie, artless lassie. 



And a' i 

wilt thou share i 

And say thou'lt b 



And when the welcome summer shower 
Has cheer'd ilk drooping little flower, 
We'll to the breathing woodbine bower, 
At sultry noon my dearie, O. 
Lassie wi', &c. 

When Cynthia lights wi' silver ray, 
The weary shearers' name ward way ; 
Through yellow waving lields we'll stray, 
And talk o' love, my dearie, O. 
Lassie wi*, 6ic. 



And v 



s my lassie's niidnig 
iclasped to my faithfu' bie 
I'll comfort thee, my dear 



n some of the MSS. this stanza runs 



ind should the bawling wintry blast, 
disturb my lassie's midnight rest ; 
',1 fauld thee to my fuithfu' breast, 
And comfort thee, my dearie, O. 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



Lassie wi' the lint-white locks, 
Bonnie lassie, artless lassie, 

Wilt thou wi' metert the fl. cl 
Wilt thou be my dearie, O. 



t of bei 



regulai 



e has at least the 

r "pastoral: the vernal uiorn, the sum. 

ion, the autumnal evening, and the win- 
ter night are regularly rounded. If you like 
it, well : if not, I will insert it in the Mu- 

I am cut of temper that you should set so 
tweet, so lender an air, as • I eil tak the wars,' 
to the foolish old verses. You talk of the 
silliness of * Saw ye my Father;' by heavens 
the odds is gold to brass ! Besides, the old 
song, though now pretty " 
the Scottish language, is 
the early edition*, a bunt, „ 
the Scottish manner, by that genius, Tom 
D'Urfey ; so has no pretensions to be a Scot- 
tish production. There is a pretty English 
' Duenna,* to this -' 



[ tin ardent ambition to be able to compose n 
i Scots air. Mr Clarke, partly by way ofjokp, 
j told him to keep to the black keys of the harp 
I sichord, and preserve some kind of rhythm ; 
) and he would infallibly compose a Scots air. 
| Certain it is, that, in a few days, air Miller 
i produced the rudiments of an air, which Mr 
i Clarke, with some touches and corrections, 
fashioned into the tune in questi >n. Ritson, 
e story of the Hack kei^s ; 



)ng by Sheridai 



irht s 



o D'Urfey 's 



e n^ght each drooping plant t 



The air, if I understand the expression of it 
properly, is the very native language of simpli- 
city, tenderness, and love. I have again gone 
over my rong to the tune as follows. " 

Now for my English song to « Nancy's to 
the Greenwood, ' &c. t 

There is an air, « The Caledonian Hunt's 
delight,' to which I wrote a song that you 
will find in Johnson. • Ye banks and braes 
o' bonnie Doon ;' this air, I think, might find 
a place among your hundred, as Lear says 
of his knights. Do you know the history of the 
air ? It is curious enough. A good many 
s ago, Mr James Miller, 






whom possibly you 
in company with our friend Clark?; 
of Scottish music, Miller expressed 



* See the song in its first and best dress in 
p. 289. Our bard remarks upon it, "I could 
easily throw this into an English mould; but, 
to my taste, in the simple and the tender of 
pastoral song, a sprinkling of the old Scottish 
has an inimitable effect. " 

T Here our pcet gives a new edition of the 
song in p. 26S of this volume, and proposes 
it for another tune. 1 he alterations are unim- 
portant. The name Maria, he changes to 
Eliza. Instead of the tenth and eleventh 
lines, as in p. 201, he introduces, 



Instead of the fourt 
not perfectly gramm: 
has, more properly, 



■ .1'iit 



«l_ Je£ 



edly asserted that this was an Irish air ; na 
I met with an Irish gentleman who affirmei 
that he had heard it in Ireland among the ol 



••-■■iiile, 



other hand, 



first perton who inl) 
:e, who took down i 



informed n 
duced the air into 
lady cf her acqua: 

notes from an itinerant p per in tne is e <t 
Man. How difficult thn to ascertain tha 
truth respecting our poesy and music ! I, 
myself, have lately seen a couple of ballads 
sung through the streets of Dumfries, with lily 
name at the head of them as the author, though 
it was the first time I had ever seen them. 

I thank you for admitting « Oaigie-burn 
wood,' and I shall take care to furnish y«u 
with a new chorus. In fact, the chorus was 
not my work, but a part of some old vfrses ;o 
(he air. If I catch myself in a more than 
ordinarily propitious moment I shall write a 
new ' Craigie-burn wood' altogether. Mv 
heart is much in the theme. 

1 am ashamed, my dear fellow, to make the 
request ; 'tis dunning ycur generosity ; but in 
i moment when I had forgotten whether I was 
rich or poor, I promised Chloris a copy of your 
songs. It wrings my honest pride to write 
jouthis; but an ungracious request is doubly 
io, by a tedious apology. To make you some 
imends, as soon as I have extracted the neces- 
sary information out of them, I will return 
,ou Ritson's volumes. 

The lady is not a little proud that she is to 
nake so distinguished a figure in \our eollec- 
ion, and I am not a little proud that I have 
t in my power to please ter so much. Lucky 
t is for your patience that my p 
for when I am in a seribbKBg foil 
not when to give over. 



I know 



No. LXIII. 
M R THOMSON TO MR BURN?. 
\alh November, 1794. 



Ml' t 



J SIR, 



, I have had £ 






eiving ycur last 

with Mr Clarke, and a long consul- 
He tuinks the 'Caledonian Hunt' is 
more bacchanal an than amorous in its nature, 
and recommends it to you to match the a r 
ardingly. Pray did it ever occur to you 
how peculiarly well the Scottish airs :r« 
adapted for verses, in the form of dialogue? 
The first part of the air is generally low, and 
uited for a man's voice, and the second pan, 



BURNS—CORRESPONDENCE, 



in many instances, cannot be sung, a? conceit 
pitch, but by a female voice. A song thus 
peifortned makes an agreeable variety, but few 
of ours are written in this form: iNvisb. sou 
would think of it in some of those skat remain. 
The or.ly one of the kind you have sent me is 
admirable, and will be a universal favourite. 

Your verses for ' Rothiemurche' are so 
sweetly pastoral, and your serenade to Chloris, 

« Dtil tak the wars,' »o passionately lender. 



that 1 I 



sung 



ivself i 






Your song ior ' My lodging is on 
the cold ground,' is likewise a diamond of the 
first water ; I am quite dazzled and delighted 
by it. Some of your Chlorises I suppose have 
flaxen hair, from )our partiality for this col- 
our; else we differ about it; for I should 
scarcely conceive a woman to be a beauty, on 
leading that she had lint-white locks. 

' Farewell thou stream that winding flows,' 
I think excellent ; but it is much too serious to 
come after « Nancy ;' at least it would seem an 
incongruity to provide the same air wiib merry 
Scottish and melancholy English verses ! The 
more that the t»\o sets of verses resemble each 
other, in their general character, the better. 
Those you have manufactured for ' Dainiy 
Davie,' will answer charmingly. I am happy 
to find you have begun your anecdotes. I care 
not how long they be, f~r it is impossible that 
any thing from your pen can be udious. Let 
ine beseech you to use ni 
me when you wish to preec 
ivith the songs : the next i 



Hire 



indj-u 



reinony iu telling 
my of your friends 
ier will bring you 
welcome to twenty 



MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. 

1 9i'/i November, 1 7 1) 4 . 
You see, my dear sir, what a punctual cor 
re.-poudent lata; though indeed you may 
thank yourself for the tedium of my tetters, 
as you have so flattered me on my horseman- 
ship with my favourite i.olby, and have prais- 
ed the grace of his ambling so much, that 1 
am scarcely ever off his back. For instance, 
this morning, though a keen blowing frost, in 
my walk before breakfast, I finished my duet 
which you were pleaded to praise so much. 
Whether I have uniformly succeeded, I will 
not say ; but here it is for you, though it is 
cot an hour old. 



Tune— 



' The sow 's tail. " 



() Phiily, happy Le that day 
When rovine through the gather 'd bay 
My youthi'u* heart was stown away, 
And by thy charms, my Phiily. 



O Willie, aye I bless i he grove 
Where first 1 own '.I my maiden love, 
Whilst thou didsl pledge the powers above 
To be my a : u dear Willie. 



A-; songsters of the early year 
Are ilka day mair sweet to uca 
So ilka day to me mair dear 
And charming is my Phiily. 

She. 

As on the brier the budding ros 

Still richer breathes and fairer 

So in my tender bosom grows 

The love I bear my Willie. 



er sun and bluer sky, 
,nmy harvest cares wi'jc 
er sae welcome to my eye 
sight cf Phiily. 



The little swallow's wanton wing, 
Though wafting o'er the flowery spri 
Did ne'er to me sic tidings bring 
As meeting o' my Willie. 



The bee, that through the si 

Sips nectar in the opening i 

Compar'd wi' my delight i: 

Upon the lips o' Phiily. 



As is a kiss o' Willie. 



Let fortune's wheel at random rin, 

And fools may tine, and knaves may \ 

My thoughts are a' bound upon ane, 

And that's my ain dear Phiily. 



What's a' the joys that gowd can gie ? 
I care nae wealth a single file; 
The lad I loe's the lad for me, 
And that's my ain dear Willie. 

Tell me honestly how you like it : and point 
out whatever you think faulty. 

I am much pleased with your idea of sing- 
it g our songs in alternate stanzas, and regret 
that you did not hint it to me sooner. In those 
that remain, I shall have it in m\ eye. I re- 
member your objections to the name, Phiily ; 
but it is the common abbreviation of Phillis 
Sally, the only other name that suits, has, to 
my ear, a vulgarity about it, which unfits it for 
any thing except burlesque. The legion of 
Scottish joetasters of the day, whom your 
brother editor, Mr Ritson, ranks with me, as 
my coevals, have always mistaken vulgarity 
for simplicity ; whereas simplicity is as much 
cloignee from vulgarity on the one hand, as 
from att\cted point and puerile conceit en the 



other 

I agree wi:h yoi 



voori, ' that 



1 Chnr 



s to the 



•Craigie-buip. 



spoil the efi'ec 
in my projected song to it. It is not however 
a case in point with ' Rotbiemur^he ;' there 
as in « Roy's Wife of AldivnMoch, ' a chorus 
goes to my taste well enough. As to th« 



id I 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



chorus sciug first, ("hut is (he case with ' Ro> 's 
Wife.'" as well as ' Roihiemurche,' 'in 
fact, iu the first part of both tune*, the rhvn:e is 
so peculiar and irregular, and on that irregu- 
larity depends so much of their Leauty, that 
-we must e'en take them with all their wild- 
ness, and humour the verse accordingly. Leav- j 
ing out the starting note, in both (unes, his, I ' 
think, an effect that no regularity could coun- j 
terbaiance the want of. J 



Try 



/ORo; 
| O !&s 

{ Roy's 
I Lassie 



.1 



Does not the tainecess of the prefixed syllable 
strike you ? In the last case, with the true 
furcr of genius, you strike at once into the 
wild orig nality of the air ; whereas in (he 
first in.-ipid method, it is like the gratis g screw 
cf the pins before ihe fiddle is brought 



'"u S I beg j 



i song go • 



This ii 
pardon of the cognoscenti. 

'The Caledonian Hunt' is 
that it would in-,ke any subjec 
down ; but pathos is certa.nly it; 
Scottish Bacchanalians we certainly want, 
though ihe few we have are excellent. ' For in- 
stance, « i'odltn hame' is, for wit and humour, 
an unparalleled composition ; and ' Andro 
and his cutty gun' is" the work of a master. 
By the way, are you not quite vexed to think 
that those men of genius, for such they cer- 
tainly were, who composed our hue Seottioh 
lyrics, should be unknown* It has given 
me many a heart-ache. Apropos to Baccha- 
nalian .-cngs in Scottish ; 1 composed one 
ycsterdav for an air I like much — 'Lumps o' 
pudding. * 



Since yesterday's pfiinrar.ship, 1 ba\e fram- 
ed a couple of English stanza*, by was of an 
English song lo Roy's wife. You will allow 
me that, in this ii.sar.ee, my EngKsh ecares- 
ponds in sentiment with the tfec/Uish. 

CANST THOU LEAVE ME THUS, 
MY KATY ? 



Tune— " Roy's wife." 

Chorus. 

Canst thou leave me la US, my Katy ? 
Can^t thou leave me thus, my Katy t 
Well thou knou'st my aching heart, 
And canst thcu leave me ;hus far pity J 

Is this thy plighted fond r-gard, 
Thus cruelly to part, iriy Ka'y 

Is this thy faithful swain's reward— 
An aching, broken heart, my Katy ? 
Canst ihou, &c. 



I 



Farewell ! 


and ne'er such sorrows tear 


That fie 


de heart of thine, my Katy: 


Thou ma\ 


'st end those will love thee dear — 


But not 


ak-velike i::ice, my Er.'v. 




C.-..1S-. thou, 4c* 



Contented wi' lit! 



ind cantie v 



the elbow o' troublesome 



I whyles clai 

thought ; 

But man is a srdger, and life is a faught : 
Wy mirth and good humour are coin in my 

And my freedom's my lairdship. cae monarch 
dare touch. 

A towmond o' trouble, should that be my fa*. 
A nigh! o' gu'd fellowship sowihers it a' : 
When a: the Llyihe end of our jjurney at last, 
Wha the diel ever thinks o' the road he has 
pass'd ? 

Blind chance, let her snapper and stoyle on 

her way •, 
Be't to me, be't frae me, e'en let the jad gae : 
Come ease, or come travail ; come pleasure or 

pain ; 
Wy warst word is -' Welcome and welcome 



* To this address, in the character cf a for- 
saken lover, a reply was found on the part of 
the lady, among the MSSc of our bard, evi- 
dently in a female hand wriing ; which is 
doubtless that referred to i" •> 977 ~r ,i..v 
volume. The temptation to 
lie is irresistible ; and if, in ^ . 
should be given to the fair authore 
beauty of her verses must plead our txe 



the pub- 



zvim 



-' ' Roy's 



rife.' 



Stay, my "Willie — yet believe me, 
S;ay, m> Wil'.ie— yet believe me, 
'Twee 1 , thou know St nae every pang 
Y»ad wring my bosom sbouldst thou leave 

TeV me that thou yet art true, 

Ai;:i a' my wrong-; shall be forgiven, 

And when this hear: proves fcuse to thee, 
Von sun shall cease : s couise in heaven, 
Stay, my Willie, \ e . 



But to think I was betray 'A, 

Thar falsehood e'er our love should sunder, 
To take the flow 'ret to my Lreast, 
And find the guilefu' serpen; under ! 
Stay, my Willie, &c. 

I Could I hope tiicu'dst ne'er deceive, 

i Celestial pleasures might I choose 'em, 

I'd si ght, nor seek in other spheres 
j That heaven I'd find within thv boso.n. 
Slay, my Willie, &'c. 

j It may amuse the reader to be told, that, on 
this occasion, the gentleman and the lady have 

j exchanged the dialects of their respective 
couiit;-:es, Tb.e Scothsh bard makes Jiij ed- 







BURNS. 


Well * 

aree tur 
jree p 


1 ihiuk this, to 
iches of Ir.sh Hla 


be done in 
, and with 
ckguord, is 


3 <l uan 
Tell u 
ily wa 


ugi of applause fro 
v friend Allan (for 
nt the trifling circ 


m somebody 



-CORRESPONDENCE. 



v»to 



no Le, 



) be the best 






on earth), that I much suspect he has, 
plates, mistaken the figure of the stock and 
horn. I have, at lu-,1, gotten one ; bu< it is a | 
very rude instrument. It is composed of three j 
pirts; the stock, which is the hinder thigh- 



lake one or" my family dishes : you hav 
edit so c liitaily, lliat it will please;;;: 
tes. Do giv- us a few more of th's cast 
i veil find vonrself in -rood sm'its: these 
iviul so. S ; are uii re wauled llan those of 
amorous kind, of which we ha\e great 
;e. Be-ides, ono does no- often meet wi'h 
gercapabla of giving the proper effect to 
after, while the former are easily sung, 
iccept ;ble to every body. 



it i 



e of a shee 






.on Highland ! bea 



I of the 



high 
y cut 



e horn, which is a co: 
cow'9horn, cut off at the su 
the aperture be large enough 
stock to be poshed up through 
it be held by the thicker em 
bone ; and lastly, an oaken n 
and notched like thai which 
Shepherd-boy hive, when the 
preen a. id in", -grown. The r*ed is not made 
fait in the bone, but is he d by the lips, and plays 
lo.se in the smaller end of the stock ; while the 
block, with the horn hanging on its lartr r 
end, is held by the hands in playing. The 
stock has six or seven ventiges on the upp r 
side, and one back-ventige, like the common, 
flute. This of mine was mads by a man from 
the braes of Athole, and is exactly what the 
shepherds wont to use in tii.it country. 

However, either it is not quite properly bored 
in the holes, or eDe we have not the art of 
blowing it rightly : for we can make little use of 
it. If Mr Allan chooses, I will send him a 
sight of mine; as I look on myself to be a 
kind of brother- brush with him. * Pride in 
Poets is nae sin,' and. will I say it, that I look 
on Mr Allan and Mr Burns to be the onlv 
il painters of Scottish custom 



s of some of on 
provoki. g to 






:.-s i,-rai, 
I'd like a 



r \V. 



T-M 



lines immediately following, a'e no doubt 
impressive on the leader's feelings ; but 
the painter to fix ou these, then you'll obi 
the animation and anxiety of her co 



, the 






r to you, and b-g yoi 



But I 
opin 



fain 



nbi,;: 



curate description of the stock and hort 
for the very gratifying compliment yoi 
him in considering *b'm worthy of standi 
a niche by th • sii» of Hums in the Scott ii 



He 



> .i.J:i. 



t yoi 



she ^ 



rid. 



whether you believe 
nave ever oeen generally used as n mu 
pipe by the Scottish shepherds, and when, 
in what part of the country chi. fly. I c 
union if it was capable of any thing but 
ing and roaring. A fiend of mine sayi 
nmemh.rs to have heard on- in hs you 
days (made of wood iusiead of yo..r uoil. ■), 
that the sound was a uminable. 
Do notj 1 besetoh ;w, return anj book* 



No. LXV. 
MR THOMSON TO MR BURNS. 

28fA2votfc 17 94. 
I acknowledge, my dear sir, you are not on 
the most punctual, but the most delectable eo 
respondent I ever met with. To attempt fla 
tering you never entered my head; the troth 
is, I look back wiili surprise at my impu- 
deuce, in so frequently nibbling at lines and 
couplets of your incomparable lyrics, for which 
perhaps, if you had served me right, you 
would have sent me to the devil. On the con- 
trary, however, you have all along 



thai i 



'•') '- 






rie,y. 



s to be wonderful, if I have sou 
times given myself the airs of a reviewe 
Your la.st budget demands unqualified praise 
all the songs are charming, but the duet is 
ekef U'eeuvre. Lumps of pudding shall certai 



dress in \>ure English ; the reply, on the uart 
rf the lacy, in the Scottish dialect, is, if we 
mistake uot, by u young and beautiful Euglish- 

W01UAU 



No. LXVI. 
MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. 

Dec 17S4. 

It is, I assure vou, the pride of m v heart to d • 
any thing to forward, or add to 'the value of 
your book; and as I agree with you liia! the 

new be j,euce till Jamie conies ham;- would i..k 
so well consort with Peter Pindar's excellent 
love song to .be air, I Lave just framed for you 
the following. 

MY NANNIE'S ANA. 

Tune—* There'll never be peace,' &c 

Now i 
And li 

braes, 
\S bile birds waible welcome in ilka 

But to n. s it's d ; J'gritless~ my Nannie's 



lHXSlOXi) CABINET LIBRARY. 



'i he snaw-drap a;:d primrose cur woodlands 

A'.d violets bathe in ihe -a eel o* ihe morn ;. 
Tnej paiu uiy sad bosom, saa sweet v they 



that hails the 



Aad thou, mellow 

night-fa', 
Give over for pity— mv Nannie's awa. 

Ootue, Autumn, sae pensive in yellow and grey. 
And soothe me vri' tidings o' Nature's deca\ , 
The dark dre rv \vi:iter audwild driving snavf, 
Alane can delight uie — now Nannie's awa. 

How does this please yon ? As to ihe point 
of li:i>.e for the expression, in jour proposed 
prim from inv Sod^er's return : It must cer- 
tainly be a!—' She gazed. ' The interesting 
dubiety an-3 suspen?e, taking possession of her 
countenance; and the gushing fondness, with 
a. mixture of roguish playfulness in his, strike 
me as things of which a master will make a 
great deal, in greal ha»ie, biu :.. great tj - b 



' that. 



They aiiud me o' Nannie — and Nannie's a 

Thou lav'rock that springs frae the dews o' 

la?.n 
The shepherd to warn o' ihe grey breaking 



No. LXVII. 
MB BURNS TO MB THOMSON. 
January, 1795. 

I fear for my songs ; however, a few ma; 
piease, yet originality is a coy feature in com 
position" and in a multiplicity of c. Torts in thi 
bsme style, disappears altogether. For these 
three thousand years, we poetic folks have bee 
describing the spring for instance ; and as tL 
spring continues the same, there must soon be 
a" sameness ill the imagery, uc. of these vhym 
ing folks. 

A great critic, Aiken, on songs, says, that 
love and wine are the exclusive themes for song 
wtiting. The following is 0:1 neither subject, 
and consequently, is no song ; but will be al- 
lowed, I think, 10 be two or three prett. good 
{. rose thoughts, inverted into rhyme. 

FOR A* THAT AND A' TIIAT. 

Is there for honest poverty 

That hangs h'.s head, and a' that ; 
The coward slave, we pass biaa bj : 

We dare be poor fur a' that, 
For a' that and a' that, 

Oar toils obscure, and a* that, 
The rauk is but the guinea's stamp, 

Thi man's ihe gewd for a' that. 



i'e see yon Vrkie, ca'd a lord, 

"VVha struts, and stares, and a* that : 
Though hundreds worship at his word, 

He's but a coof for a' that ; 
"or a' that and a' that, 

His riband, star, and a' that, 
The man of independent mind, 

He looks and laughs at s' that. 

L prince can malt a belted knight, 
A marquis, duke, and a' that ; 
But an honest man's aboon his might, 

Guid faith, he matinna fa' that I 
For a* that, and a' ;hat, 

dignities, and a* that 
The pith a' sense and pride o* worth, 
Are higher raL;ks than a' that. 

Then let us pray that come it may, 

As come it kill for a' that, 
That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth 

May bear the gree, and a' that. 
For a"' that andV f a - , 

It's coming ye' for a' that, 
That man to man, the warid o'er, 

Shall brother* be for a' lhau 

I do not give you the foregoing song f.>? 
your book, but merely by way of rtre la basa- 
lelli ; for the piece is not really poetry. How 
fill thefoiiowisg do for Craigie-bum icoodl 

Sweet fa's the eve on Craigie-burn, 
And blytke a v. akes the morrow, 

Bat a* the pride o' spring's return 
Can v k-la me nocbt but sorrow. 

1 see the flowers and spreading trees, 

I hear the wild birds singing ; 
But what a weary wight can please. 

And care his bosom wringing ? 

Fain fain would I ray griefs impart, 

Yet dare na for y ir anger ; 
Bat secret love will break my heart, 

If I conceal it langer. 

If thou refuse to pity me, 

If thou sliait love anither, 
When yon gre=n leaves fade frae the trre, 

Around my grave they *ii wither. * 

Farewell I God bless •,. u. 






->n haJBBelj fare we dine, 
n' grey, and a' that ; 
r silks, and kr . 



* Craigie-burn wood is s ; tua;ed on the banks 
of the river Moffat, and about three miles dis- 
tant from the village of that name, celebrated 
for its medicinal waters. The woods of 
Craigie-burn and of Dumcrief, were at one tlico 
favourite haunts of our poet. It was there 
he met the • Lassie wi' the lint-white locks, * 
and that he conceived several of his I - 
■tries. 



BURNS. — CORRESPONDENCE. 



MR THOMSON TO MR BURNS. 
Edinburgh, 30th Jan. 1735. 

MY DEAR SIR, 
I thank you heartily for Nannie's aica, as well 
as tor Craigie burn,, which 1 think a very c( 
ly pair. Your observation 0:1 the difficulty of 
original writing in a number of efforts, in t' 
sane style, strikes rue very forcibly ; and it ii 
ngain and again excited my wonder to fin j 3 
continually surmounting Uiis difficulty-, in 1 
many delightful songs you have sent me. Yo 
uwe to bagatelle soug, Fur a' that, »nall u 
uutibtedty be included in my list. 



vyeetest (lower that 
trodden like the vil 
raple maid the less 



eek'd the mead, 
t weed : 
read. 



No. LX1X. 

.YR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. 

February, 1795. 

Here is another trial at your ia-ourite air. 

Tana— * Let me in this ae hrht. ' 

O lassie, art thou sleeping yet, 
Or art thou wakin, I would .1 it, 
For love has bound me hand ;uid foot, 
And 1 would fain be uujo. 

Chorus. 

O let rue in this ae niglil, 
This ue, ae, ae uighi, 
For pity's sake this ue night, 
O rise aud let me in, j T. 

Thou hear'st the winter wind and weet, 
Nae star blinks through the driving aleei, 
Tak pity on my weary feet, 



The bilter'blast that round me blaw 
Unheeded howls, unheeded fa's; 
The caulduess o' thj heart's the eai 
ufa' my grief and pain, jo. 
U let me in* .Sec. 

HER ANSWER. 

O tell 11a me o' wind and rain, 
Upbraid. 11a me wi' cauld d sdain, 
Oae back the road ye cam again, 
i wihna let you in, jo. 



I tell you now this ae night. 

This ae, ae, ae night ; 

Aud ance for a' this ae night ; 



1 lei v 



.jo. 



Tbesnellest blast at mirkest hours, 
That round the pathless w 
Ik nought to what poor sh 
That's trusted faithless 

1 tell YOU HON 



po;.- 



No. LXX. 

mr yuRNS to mr Thomson. 

EBt-fr/vcAc.i, 7 , : February. K:^. 

MV DEAR THOMSON, 

fou cannot have any idea of the predicament 
■i which I write to you. In the course of my 
uty as supervisor (in which capacity I h.ive 
cod of late) I came yesternight to this U11- 
■rtunate, wicked, little village. 1 have goiia 
forward, but snows of ten feet deep haTe im- 
peded my progress; I ba\e tried to ' gse back 
the gate I cam again,' but the tauie obstacle 
has shut me up wnhin insuperable bare. To 
aid to my uiitdortune, since dinner, a scraper 
has been torturing catgut, in sounds that would 
have in-uited the d\ ing agonies of a sow, und-.r 
ihe hands of a butcher, auu minks himself, 011 
that very account, exceeding good company, 
in fact, I have been in a dilemma, either to 
■el drunk to forget these miseries ; or to hang 
n self to get lid of tliem : like a prudent man, 
a character congenial to my every thouglit, 
ford aud deed,; I, of two evils have chosen 
the least, and am very drunk, at your service !* 
wrote you yesterday from Dumfries. ( 
lot time then to teil you all I wanted to 
I s.i^y ; an 1 hekveu knows, at present, i haxe no', 
capacity. 






-I a 






t. We'U gic 

t slowish t me, it would make an excel- 
ng. I am high y delighted with it ; and 
bhouid think it worthy of your attention, 
a fair name ill my e j e to whom I would 



U just going to be 



, I wish v 



gouJ 



No. LXX I. 

MR THOMSON TO MR BURNS. 

25/A February, 1793. 

j I have to thank you, my dear sir, for t 
] epistles, one containing Let me in this ae nig 
aud the other from Ecelefechan, proving, il 



S93 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



drunk or sober, your ' mind is never muddy, ' 
You have displayed great address in the abose 
song. Her answer is excellent, and at the 
same time takes away the indelicacy that other- 
wise would have attached to his entreaties: I 
like the song as it stands, very much- 

I Lad hopes you would be arrested sonic 
days at Lcclefechan, and be obliged to beguie 
the tedious forenoons by song making. It will 
five me pleasure to receive the \ene, you in- i 
tend for O ivat lis wha's in yon town. | 



Take aught else of mine, 
But my Ciiioris spare ice J 

How do you like the foregoing ? The Irish 
air, '* Humours of Glen,'' is;: great favourite 
of mine, and as, except the silly stuff i 
•Poor Soldier,' there are not any decent 
versus for it, 1 have written for it as follow. 

SONG. 



No. LXXII. 
MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. 

Mat,; 1795. 
ADDRESS TO THE WOODLARK. 

Tune — * Where'll bonnie Annie lie.' 

Or, * Loch-Errcch Side. * 

O stay, sweet-warbling woodlark, stay, 
Nor quit for me the trembling spray, 
A helpless lover courts thy lay, 
Thy soothing fond complaining. 

Again, again that tender part, 
That 1 may catch thy melting art: 
For surely that wad touch her heart) 
Wha kills me «i p disdaining. 

Stay, was thy little mate unkind. 
And heard thee as the careless wir.d ? 
Ch, nocht but love and sorrow joiu'd, 
Sic notes o' woe could wauken. 

Thou tells o* never-ending care ; 
O' speechless grief, and dark despair : 
For pity's sake, sweet bird, nae mair : 
Or my poor heart is broken ! 

Let me know your very first leisure how vol 
ike this song. 

ON CHLORIS BEING ILL. 

rune—' Aye waki&V 

Ctwi-us. 

• Long, loi^ the night, 



Hea 

Whil. 



my s 



■ghi, 



is on her Led of son 

Can I cease to care. 
Can I cease lo iaugui* 

While my darling fair 
Is on the couch of ar.| 
Long, &c 

Every hope is fled, 

Every fear is terror; 
Slumber e'en I drtrad, 

Long, &c 

Hear me, powers divine 



i' thebu 

broom 



t the 



bo< 



The 



And caul'd'Caled, 
Their swee.:-sce!ited 
proud palace, 
hat are they ? 

slave's spic'v f 



n lone glen o' green 
5 under the lang yellow 
re yon humble bro( in 
the blue bell and go wan lurk lowly 
, iightly tripping amang the wild 
ing the linnet, aft wanders my Jean, 
the breeze in their gay sunny 



: s blast on the wave ; 
dlands that skin lha 

; haunt o' the tyrant 

s, and gold-bubbling 



SONG. 
Time—' Laddie, lie 



'Twcs the bewitching, i 



r do I fear that to hope is denied me ; 

Sair do I fear (hat despair maun abide me : 

But tho' fell fortune should fate us to sc\er r 

en shall she be in my bosom for ever. 

Mary, I'm ihine wi' a passion sincerest, 
And thou hast plighted me love o' the deaies 
And thou'rt the angel that never can aller, 
I Sooner the sua in bis rnoti-jn would falter. 



BURNS— CORRESPONDENCE 



!C I , 



No. LXXIII. 

MR THOMSON TO MR BURNS, 

You must not think, my good sir, that i have 
«ny intention to enhance Ibe value of mj gift, 
when 1 saj, in justice to the ingenious and 
worthy artist, thai the des gn and execution of 
1 the Cotter's Saturday Night' is in my 
opinion, one of the happiest productions of 
Allan's pencil. I shall be grievous!} disau 
pointed if vou are' not quite pleased with il. 

The figure intended tor your portrait. I think 
ftrikingly like you, as far as I can remember 
your phiz. This should make the piece inter- 
esting to your family every way. Tell m? 
whether Mis Burns finds voa cut among the 
figures. 

1 cannot express the feeling of admiration 
with which I have read your pathetic • Address 
to the woodlark,' your elegant ' Panegj 
on Caledonia,' and your affecting versus 
• Chloris' illness. ' Every repeated perusal 
of these gives new delight. The other song to 
•Laddie, iie near me,' though not equal to 
tha^e, is very pleasing. 



No. LXX1V. 
MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. 

ALTERED FROM AN OLD ENGLISH SONG. 

Air— • Johu Anderson my jo.' 

How cruel are the parents 

Who riches oniy prize, 
And to the wealthy bojby, 

Poor woman sacrifice.* 
Meanwhile the hapless daughtei 

Has but a choice of strife ; 
To shun a tyrant father's hate, 

Become a wretched wife. 

The ravening hawk pursuing, 

'lhe tremblintr dove thus liies, 
To shun impelling ruin 

A while her pinions tries ; 
Till of escape despairing, 

No shelter or retreat, 
She trusts the ruleless falconer, 

And drops beneath his feet. 

SONG. 

Tune—* Dei! lak the wars. ' 

Markjonder pomp of EOstij fashion, 
Round the wea ihy, titled tnder 

c npared with real passion, 
to .; princely pride. 
What are their showy trea=ur.= s ? 
iv nat are ihtir noisy pleasures ? 
i"he gay, gaudy glare of vanity und art. 
The polish "d jewel's blaze, 
May draw the wond'niig gaze, 
And courtly graudeur brigiTt, 
'i'he fancy may delight, 
But never, never can come near the Leart. 



, Loveiy as yonder sweet opening itcwer is, 
I Shrinking from the jrazc of day. 
O then the heart alarming, 
And all resistless charming, 
In Love's delightful fetters she chains the will- 
ing soul ? 
Ambitiou would disown 
The woild's imperial crown, 
Even Av 'rice would deny 
His worshipp'd deity, 
And feel through ever* vein I^e's rap'ures 

Well this is not am'ss. You see how 1 an- 
swer your orders: your tailor could not la 
more punctual. I am just now iu a h :^h Li 
of poetizing, provided that the strait-jacket of 
criticism don't cure me. If you can hi u post 
or two administer a little of the intoxicating 
pn'-i-n of jour applause, it will raiseyour i.uiu- 
ble servant's phrenzy to any heig" 



ith the Mus 



u.J L_ 



' hchi 



; high converse" 
a word to throw 



No. LXXV. 
MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. 

Ten thousand tbauks, for your elegant present » 
though I am ashamed of the value of it, tein? 
bestowed en a man who has net Ly any 
means merited such an instance of kindness. 
I have shown it io two or three judges of the 
first abilities here, and they all agree with me 
in classing it as a first-rate proeucticn. My 
phiz is "sae kenspeckle. " that the very jo n- 
er's appreutice whom Mrs Burns tiupiojed to 
break up the parcel (1 was out of town that 

pliments to Allan, who has honoured my rus- 

One strange i 






who h 

chin" of mine, whom, frl 

witty wicked. .ess and ma 
even at twa davs auld I foi 
striking features of his t 
Willie Nicol, after a ceri 
leof the masters 
which shall be n 
: the inclosed epigram 



r»P« 



i.i j 



, Chfl 



uch- 



alued friend Cunningham, and tell him that 
n Wednesday 1 go to visit a friend of his, to 
fhom his friendly partialis in speaking ol im , 
a a manner introduced :tie — i mean u »til 
military and literary character, Colonel 



i liked my Ivan 



Jnom. 



No. LXXYI. 
- MR THOMSON TO MR BURNS. 
13 ': May, 1795. 
It gives tr.e great pleasure toiiud that you hi 



300 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



e'.l so well satisfied with Mr A'lsn's produclio 
Ihe chance resemblance of jour little fel- 
jow, whose prorating disposition appeared 
very early, and suggested whom he should 
uained after, is curious enough. .1 am a 
quainted with that person, wLo is a , r digj of 
learning and genius, and a pleasant fellow, 
though no saint. 

You real!; make me blush when you tell :ne 
you base not merited the drawing from me. 
1 do not think I can ever repay \ou, or suf- 
ficiently esteem and respect you for the liberal 
and kiud manner in whieh you have entered 
into the spirit of my undertaking, which cou!d 
not have been pesfected without you: So I 
beg \ou would not make a foo! of ine again, by 
tpeakiug of obligation. 

i Ike your two last so:;gs very much, and 
tin happy to tiud you are in such a high ril of 
poetizitig. I>r.g* may it last. Ci.Irke has 
e sthenic air in Ma let's superlative 
Lai. ad of • William and Margaret.' and s to 
j::. e it to me to Le eurolkd among the elecL 



No. LXXYU. 
MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. 



_ In « Whistle and I'll c 
the iteration of that line ); 
Ueiegoes what I think is 



oture v 



r-> 



esometomy ear. 

' my lad ;' 

d a' should gae 

• lad. 



In fact, a fair d 
P,-ie.,t of the Nin 
I'aruassxu: a cam 
ti.cd iu witci:crafi 



She's bonnie, blooming, straight. 
And lang has had my heart in tin 
And aye it charms in 
The'kind love (hat' 
O tbit is no, & 



ihraJ! ; 



A ihief sae pake is my Jem;, 

To st-al a biiuk by a' unseen ; 

But cleg as light are lovers' e'en, 

When kind hne is in her e'e. 

O this is no, &c 

It may escape the courtly sparks, 

It may escape the learned clerks ; 

But w'eel the watchins lover marks, 

'Ihe kind lore that's iu Lev e'e. 

O this is no, Sic. 

Do you know that you have roused the tor- 
pidity" of Clarke nt last ? He has requesied 
me to write three r.r four songs for him, which 
he is to set to music himself. The inclosed 
sheet contains two songs for him, which 
please to present to my valued friend Cuuning- 

I inclose the sheet open, both for your in- 
spection, aad that you may copy the song, ' O 
bonny was yon rosy brier.' 1 do not know 
whether I am rght ; but that song plea-es me. 
and as it is extremely probable "the Clarke's 
newly rousfd celestial spark will scon le 
smothered in the fogs cf indulgence, if you 
like (be song, it may go as Scottish verses, to 
the air of, • I wish my love was in the mire ;' 
and poor Erskine's English lines may follow. 

I inclose you 'For a' (hat and a' that.' 
which was never in print: it is a much su- 
perior soug to n:ii;e. 1 lis re been told that it 
was composed by a lady. 

TO MR CUNNINGHAM. 

SCOTTISH SONG. 






at whose shrine, I, the 
,-fier up the iucense of 
iijui tne Graces have at- 
id whom the Lo^es have 
.ned vrilii lightning, a Fair One, herself the 
route of the song, insists on the amendment ; 
J Jsjiuu her commands if you dare! 

SONG. 



« ;L '= :i .10 mine ain lassie 
F'-ii: though the lassie be ; 

O weel I ken mine ain lassie, 
Kind love is in her e'e. 

I see a form, I see a face, 
Ve weel may wi' the fairest place : 
Lt wants to me the witching grace, 
The kind love that's in her e'e. 
O this is no, &c 



ll.e far. 



v.r.g c 



Rejoice in fostering showers ; 
While ilka thing in nature join 

Their sorrows to forego, 
O why thus all alone are mine 

The weary steps of woe ! 

The trout within yon wimpling burn 

Glides swift, a silver dart, 
And safe beneath the shady thorn 

Defies the angler's art ; 
Mj life was ance that careless stream. 

That wanton trout was I ; 
But love wi' unrelenting beam, 

Has scorch'd my fountains dry. 

The little flow'ret's peaceful lot, 

In yonder cliff" that grows. 
Which, save the linnet's flight, I wot, 

Nae ruder visit knows. 
Was mine ; till love has o'er me pass'd 

And blighted a' my bb-om. 
And now beneath the wnh'ring blast, 

My youth and joy consume. 

Th<" waken'd iav'rock warbling swings 

And climbs the early sky, 
Winnowing blytke her dewy wings 

As little rcckt I sorrow's power, 
L T iitil Ihe flowery -tiare 



BTJSN 3. - CO R U GSPON DEN Cii. 



SO] 



had my fa'.e been Greenland 's snow 

Or Atric'6 burning zone, 
Wi' man and nature leagued my foes, 

So Peggy ne'er I'd known! 
The wre.ch whasedooui is ■ hope nae I 

That tongue his woes can tell ! 
Within whnse bosom, save despair, 

Nae kinder spirits dwell. 

SCOTTISH SONG. 

bonny was you rosy brier, 

That blooms sae far f'rae haunt o' man 
And bonnie she, and ah ! how dear ! 

it shaded frae the e'en in' tun. 



No. LXXVIIL 

MR THOMSON TO MR BURNS. 

Edinburgh, 3d Aug. 1795. 

' : Jiv dhah sir, 

; This will be delivered to you by a l)r Brian- 

. ton, \>lio L;is read your works, and ppnts for 

[ the honour of _iour aequainiance. i do not 



I he £ 






but his 



v, bo i 



>n vo 


ebuds 


D tl 


e morning c 


BW 


ilo-v 


pure, 




g the leaves 


sae green 


at pu 


er was 


the lover's vow 




They 


mines 


s'd 


u their shad 


yestreen. 



All in its ruJe and prickly bower, 
That crimson rose, how sweet an 

But love is far a sweeter flower 
Amid life's thorny path o' care. 

The pathless wild, and wimpling b 
Wi' Chloris in my arms, be mill 
And I the world, nor v 



Written en tbe blank leaf of a copy of the 
last edition of my poems presented to the lady, 
whom, iu so many fictitious reveries of passion, 
but with the most ardent sentiments of real 
friendship, I have so often suag under ths name 
of Chloris. 

'Tis friendship's pledge, my young, fair fnend, 

Nor tbou the gift refuse, 
Nor with unwilling ear attend 

The moralizing muse. 

Since tho'j, in all thy youth and charms, 

Must bid the world adieu, 
(A world 'gainst peace in constant arms'* 

To join tbe friendly few. 

Since thy gay morn of life o'ercast, 

Chill came the tempest's lour ; 
(And ne'er misfortune's eastern blast 

l>iu nip a fairer flower.) 

Since life's gay scenes must charm no more, 

Siill muca is left behind ; 
Still nobler wealth hast thou in store, 

TRe comforts of the mind ! 

Thine is the self approving glow, 

Ou c.mscious honour's part ; 

And, dearest gift of hea\en below, 

Toiue friendship's truest heart. 



| plied to me for this intioduction, being a 

■ cellent young man, I have no doubt he is 

I thy ofufl acceptation. 

j My eyes have just been gladdened, an 

i mind feasted, wiih \ou 

! pleasant things indeed. 

s yours! It is superfluous to tell vou flint 
am delighted with nil the three songs, as 

/ell as your elegant anil tender verses to Chlo- 

I am sorry you should be induced to alter ' O 
thistle and I'll come to ye, my lad,' to the 
prosaic line, * Thy Jeauy will venture wi' ye, 
in y lad. ' I must be permitted to say, that I 
do not think the [alter either reads or sings so 
well as the former. 1 wish, therefore, you 
would in my name petition the charming 
Jeany, whoever she be, to let the line remain 
unaltered.* 

I should be happy to see Mr Clarke produce 
a few songs to be joined to your verses. E\ery 
body regrets his writing so very litile, as every 
body acknowledges his ability to write well. 
Pray, was the resolution fornud coolly before 
dinner, or was it a midnight vow made over a 
bowl of punch wiih the bard ! 

i Mr Cunningham wha'. 



i ha- 



ent bin 



For a' that a 



P. S. — The lady 
s sensible enough, cut no more to oecompa 
o your's than 1 to Hercules. 

No. LXXIX. 

MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. 

ENGLISH SONG 

Tur.e — " Let me in this ae night." 

Forlorn, my love, no comfort near, 

Far, far from thee I wander here ; 

Yar, far from thee, the fate severe 

At which I most repine, love. 

C/wr«K» 

O wert thou, love, but near me, 



e to rove ; 
And doubly were the poet bless 'd 
'"■ ie joys could he improve. 



who has heard the heroine of 
herself in the very spirit of 
that it requires, thinks Mr 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



Around me scowls a wintry sky, 
That blasts each bud of hope und joy ; 
And shelier, shade, ncr home have I, 
Save in these arms cf thine, lo*e. 
O wert, &c. 

Cold, alter'd fr'endship's crnel part 
To poison fortune's ruthless dart- 
Let me not break thy faithf 1 lirart, 
And say that fate "is mine, love. 







Lest i 


But dieary (hough ihs moments Meet 




My v. oo 


C) ie! me think we vet shail meet I 




And \ 


Thai only ray of solace sweet 




s 


Can on thy Chloris shine, love. 




And V 


wert, &c. 






How do you like the foregoing? I 


have 


Gin > 


written it v>ithin this hour : so much for the 


And boi 


peed of my Pegasus ; but what say you t 


o bis 


ft 



No, LXXX. 

MR BURNS TO ?.;R THOMSON. 

SCOTTISH BALLAD. 

Tane-'The Lothian Lassie.' 

Last May a braw wcoer came down the lang 



And fair wi' his love he did deai 

I said their was naeihing I hated 1 

The deuce gae wi m> to believe I 



. 



The-deuee gie wi' 



, to belie 



He spak o' the darts in my bonnie black e'en, 
And vow 'd for my love he was dying : 

I said he might die what lie liked for Jean, 
The Lord forgi'e me fur lying, for lying, 
The Lord forgi'e me for lying ! 



A weel-stocked mailer 



md, 



And marriage aff b 
I never Won that 1 bend 
But thought I might hae 

offers. 
But thought I might hae 

But what wad yon think ! it 

The de - il tak his taste to 

He up the lang loan to my I 



vere his profile! 
t, or caved, 
waur offers, i 



to the word « 


. .:■■ 


Burns replies 


as t'ollov 


< Gateslack 


is the na 


a kind of pa= 




on the co Klines of (hi 


is also the na 


uie of a 


Nith, wheie 


are still 



,«He up the lsnz loan 



throw oat any thing 



how the jad I eculd bear her, could 
her, 
! how the jad T ccuid bear her. 



l?ut a' the nei»t week as I fretted wi' care, 
I gaed lo the tnste of Dalgarnock, 

And vvha but my fine fickle lover was there ! 
I glowred as I'd seen a warlock, a warlock, 
I glowred as I'd seen a warlock. 

But owre my left shouther I gae him a blink 

Eebors !r,i_-ht say I v. as saucy; 
r he caper 'd as he'd been in drink, 
ivv'd [ was his dear lassie, dear U 



cousin fu' coisthy and sweet, 

cover'd ber hearin, 

» shcon fit her aula sbachlet 

how he fell a sv 

But heavens ! how he fell a swear'u. 

He begged for Gudesake ! I wad be his wife, 
Or else I would kill him wi' sorrow : 

So, e'en lo preserve the poor body in life, 
I think I maun wed him to-morrow, to- 

I thiisk I ma'uu wed him to-morrow. 

FRAGMENT. 

Tune—' The Caledonian Hunt s delight. 

"Why, why tell thy lover, 

■ enjoy ; 



O why, while fancy, raptured slumbers* 






No. LXXXI. 

THOMSON TO MR BURNS. 



MY DEAR SIK, 
Your English vers 
r.ight,' are tender 
ballad to the 'Lothi 



i to 4 Let 



this 



liful ; and your 
Lassie' is a master pieoe 
for its humour and naivete. The fragment for 
the ' Caledonian hunt' is quite suited to the 
original measure of the air, and, as it plagues 
you so, the fragment must content it. I would 
rather, as I said before, have had Bacchanalian 
;, had it so pleased the poet ; but n 



mkfal. 



, Lord make i 



BURNS. -CORRESPONDENCE. 



MR THOMSON TO MR BURNS. 

5th February, 1793. 
O Uobby Burns-are you sleeping yet ? 
Or are ye waukmg, I would wit? 

The pause you have made, my dear sir, is a;v- 
ful ! Am I never to hear from you agaiu ? I 
know and I lament how much you have been 
aiilicted of late, but I irust That returning 
health and spirits will now enable you to re- 
suoie the pen, and delight us with your mus- 
ings. 1 nave still about a uozen Scottish and 
Iri=h airs that I wish "married to immortal 
\erse. " We have several true-born Irishmen 
on the Scottish list ; but they are now natu- 
ralized, and reckoned our owu good subjects. 
Inceed we have none better. I believe I be- 
fore told you that I have been much urged by 
some friends to publish a collection of all our 
favourite airs aiidsongs in octavo, embellished 
with a number of etchings by our ingenious 
friend Allan ; what is your opinion of this ? 



No. LXXXIII. 
MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. 
February, 1796. 
Many thanks, my dear sir, for your hand- 
some, elegant present, to Mrs B — , and 

for my remaining volume of P. Pindar 

Peter is a delightful fellow, and a first favour- 
ite of mine. I am much pleased with your 
idea of publishing a collection of our songs in 

to lend every assistance in my power. The 
Irish airs I shuli cheerfully undertake the task 






s for. 



[ have already, you know, equipped three 
with words, and" the other day i strung up a 
kind of rhapsody to another Hibernian melody, 
which i admire much. 

HEY FOR A LASS WF A TOCHER. 

TuTie—* Balinamona Ora.' 

Awa wi' your'witchcraft o' beauty's alarms, 
'ihe slender bit beauty you grasp in your arms ; 
O, gie me the lass that has acres o' charms, 
O, gie me the lass wi' the weel-stocket farms. 



1 ben bey for a lass wi ' a tocher, then hey for 

1 nen hey for a lass wi' a tocher ; the nice yel- 
low guineas for me. 

Vour beamy 's a flower, in the morning that 

And withers the faster, the faster it grows ; 
But the rapturous charm o' the bonaie green 



Ilk spring they're 
' Then, 



v deckit wi' bonn'e white 



And e'en when this beaut v vour bosom ha? 

bless'd, 
The brightest o' beauty may cloy, when pos- 

But the sweet yellow darlings wi' Geordie im- 

pre=s'd,, 
The langer ye hue them—the mair they 're ea- 



r of my 



Scottish pas. 
line things else, 
mdments to pro- 
ionedof "flaxen 



Then, bsy, &c. 
If this will do, you have now foi 
Irish engagement. In my bye past 
dislike one thi.g : the name Chloris— I meant 
it as the fictitious name of a certain lady: 
but, on second thoughts, it is a high incongru- 
ity to have a Greek appella ' 
toral baliad. — Of this ai 
in my next : I have more 
pose. — What you once J 
jocks*' is just : they cam 
gant description of beauty. — Of this also again. 
— God bless you !* 



No, LXXXIV. 

MR THOMSON TO NR BURNS. 

Your •« Hey for a lass wi» a tocher" is a 
most excellent song, and with you the subject 
is something new indeed. It is ihe lust time 
1 have seen you debasing the god of soft de- 
sire into an amateur of acres and guineas. 

1 am happy to find you approve of my pro- 
posed octavo edition. Ailau has designed and 
etched about twenty plates, and I am to have 
my choice of them for that woik. Indepen- 
dently of the Hcgarihian hu.iiour with wnicb 
they abound, they exhibit the character and 
costume of the Scottish peasantry with inimita- 
ble felicity. In this respect he himself says, 
thev will/ar exceed the aquatinta plates he did 
for'the ''Gentle Shepherd,' because in the 
etching, he sees clearly what be is doing ; but 
not so with the aquatinta, which he could not 
manage to his mind. 

The Butch bocrs of Ostade are scarcely more 
characteristic and natural, than the Scottish 
figures in those etchiugs. 



MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. 

April, 1793. 
4Ia2, my dear Thomson, I fear it will be tome 
t. me ere I tune my lyre again ! "By Babel 
streams I have sat and wept, '' almost ever since 
1 wrote you last ; I have only known existence 
by the pressure of the heavy hand of sickness ; 
and have counted time by Ike repercussions of 
pa.n ' Rheumatism, cold, and fever, have 
tormed to me a terrible combination. I close 
my eyes in misery, and open them without 
hope. I look on me vernal day, and say with 
poor Fergusson — 



* Our poet never explained what name he 

would have substituted for Chloris. 'Note 

by Mr Thomson. ' 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY, 



;n.\>ri:e 



This will be delivered to you by a Mrs 
Hyslop, landlady <f the G'obe tavern her<s 
which for these many sears has been ray howf, 
and where our friend Clarke and I had nianv 
a merry squeeze. I am highly delighted with 
Mr Allan's etchings. « WWd and married 
and a" is admirable ! The grouping is beyond 
all praise. The expression of the figures, con- 
formable to the story in the ba'lad, is absolute- 
ly faultless perfection. I next admire • Turn- 
imspike. ' What I like least is, 'Jenny said 
to Joekie. ' Besides the female bein^ in her 
appearance .... if you take her stoop- 



mg i 



the a 



s at lea 



taller than her lover. Poor Cleshorn ! I sin- 
cerely sympathize with him. Happy I am to 
think that he has a well-grounded hope of 
health and enjoyment in this world. As for me 
— but that is a . . . . subject ! 



Although thou ma n never be mine, 

Although even hope is denied I 
'Tis sweeter for thee despairing 

Than aught in the world beside— Jess : <= .' 
Here's a health, &c. 

1 mourn through the gay, gaudy day. 
As, hopeless, I muse on thy i hiii mi. , 

But welcome the dream o' sweet slumber. 
For then I am lock'd in thy arms— Jeesi- i 
Here's a health, &c. 

I g'jess by the dear angel smile, 

I guess by the love- rolling e'e ; 
But why urge the tender confession 

'Gainst fortune's fell cruel decree— Jessie 1 
Here's a health, &c* 



No. LXXXV 

MR THOMSON TO MR BURNS. 

■Uhllay, 17 £6. 

I need not tell you, my good sir, what conce n 
the receipt of your last gave me, and how much 
I sympathize in your sufferings. But do not, 
I beseech you, give yourself up to despondency, 
nor speak the language of despair. The vig..ur 
of your constitution, I trust, w il soon set you 
on your fret again ; and then, it is to be hoped, 
you will see the wisdom and the necessity if 
taking due care of a life so valuable to your 
frieuus and to the world. 

Trusting that your next will bring agreeaHe 
Bccouuts of your conva'escenc-, and relirni g 
good spirits, 1 remain, with sincere regard, 
yours. 

P. S. — Mrs Hys'op, I doubt not, delivered 
the gold seal to you i i good ccadition. 



No. LXXXV I II. 
MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. 

This will be delivered by a Mr Lewars, 
young feilow of uncommon merit. As he wil 
be a day or two in town, you will have leisure 
if yen choose, to write me by him ; and if vol 
have a spare half hour to spend with him", I 
shall place your kindness to my account. ' ] 
, have no copies of the songs I have sent you 
, and I have taken a fanc\ to review them all 
and possibly may mend some of them ; 






, ,„ when 

,__ „„.„,,. ^.^ .B. a uj CF I will thank ycu for 

either the originals, or copies. + I r.ad rather 
be the author~of i-ve well-written son^s than 
of ten otherwise. I have great hopes that the 
genial influence of the approaching summer 
will set me to rights, but as' \ei I ca'nnc- bo:.Kt 
of returning health. I have now reason to 
believe that my complaint is a flyiug gout ; a 
sad business ! 

l>o let me know how Cleghorn is, and re- 

This should have been delivered to you a 
month aso. I am still very poorly, but should 
iike much to hear from \ou. 



No. LXXXV II. 
MR BL'RNS TO MR THOMSON. 

U V JS It SIR, 

1 once mentioned to vou an air which I ha, 
long ai:nired, • Here's a heal'.h to them thar 
awa, h'ney,' but I forget if \ou took any nc 
tice of it.' 1 have just been trying to suit 
s ; and I beg lea 



l-ira.. i 



r attention once i 



[ have 



a he-lth ;o ar.e I lo'e dear, 
a be-ilth to ane I lo'e de.-.r; 
t sweet as the smile when fom 



No. L XXX IX. 
MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. 

120. Jul} 

After all my buasied independence, cursed neces- 
sity compels me to implore you for tive pounds. 

A cruel of a haberdasher, lo 

whom I owe an account, taking it into his 
head that I am dying, has commenced a pro- 



* Iu the letter to Mr Thomson, the three 
first stanzas only are given, and Mr Thomson 
supposed our poet had never gone far'her. A- 
niorig his MSS. was, howpvrr, fom.d ih*> 
fourth stan,:a, which completes tit's ex.jaisit* 
song, the iust finished offspring of his muse. 

f It is needless to say, that this revisal Burn* 
did not live to perform. 



BURNS.— CORRESPONDENCE. 



»Vo 



cesa, and will infallibly put me into jail. Do, 
fc:r God's Bake, send me that sum, and that by 
return of post. Forgive ice this earnestness, 
but the horrors of a jail have made me half dis- 
tracted. I do not Xk all ih:s gratuitously ; for 
upon returning health, I hereby promise and 
engage to furnish you with five pounds worth 



SONG. 

Twie — ' Rothiemurche. 

Fairest maid on Devon banks, 

Crystal Devon, winding Devon, 
Wilt thou lay that frown aside, 
And smile as thou were wont to do. 



Full well thou know'st I love thee dear, 
Couldst thou to malice lend an ear ! 
O did not, love, exclaim « Forbear * 
Nor use a faitf.ful lo.er so. ' 
Fairest maid, &c. 

Then come thou fairest of the fair, 
Those wonted smiles, O let me share; 
And by that beauteous sell I swear, 
No love but thine my heart sliall know. 
Fairest maid, &c* 



by Mrs Hyslop, I ha\e b 
what manner 1 ccutd endeavour to aileviaia 
your sufferings. Again and agaiu I thought 
of a pecuniary offerT but the recollection of on? 
of your letters on this subject, and the fer.r of 
offending your independent spirit, cue!; d my 

for the frankness of your letter of the 12th, and 
with ?reat pleasure inclose a draft for the very 
sum I proposed sending. "Would I were the 
Chancel.or of the Exchequer but for one day, 

Pray, my good sir^, is it not possible for you 
to muster a volume of poetry ? If too much 
trouble to you in the present state of your 
health, some literary friend might be found 
hers, who would select and arrange from your 
manuscripts, and take upon him the task of 
Editor. In ihe meantime it could be advertis- 
ed to be published by subscription ? Do not 
shun this moJe of obtaining the value of your 
labour ; remember Pope published the Iliad by 
subscription. Think of this, my dear Burns, 



ctdo r. 






inced of the res- 
pect and friendship I bear you, to impute any 
thing I say to any ui. worthy mot.ve. Yours 
faiihiully. 

'Ihe verses to « Rctblemurehe' will answer 
finely. lam happy to see you can still tuue 
-lyre. 



No. XC. 
MR THOMSON TO MR BURNS. 
li'.h July, 179tf. 
MY DEAR SIR, 
Sver 6iuce 1 received your melancholy letter 



* These verses, and the letter inclosing thern^ 



arc written in a character th&t marks the very 
iec-bie stale of their author. Mr Syme is o'f 
opinion that he could not have been in any 
danger of a jail at Dumfries, where certainty 
he had many firm friends, nor under any neces- 
sity of imploring aid from Edinburgh. But 
about this lime his mind began to be at times 
unsettled, and the horrors cf a jail perpetually 
ginalion. lie died en the 21-t 



jfthii 



D 



APPENDIX. 



It may gratify curiosity to know some particulars of the history of the preceding Poems, c 
venich the celebrity of cur Bard has been hitherto founded; and with this view the followit: 
tiiricl is made from a letter of Gilbert Suras, the brother of our Poet, and his friend aud coi 
U hi* esrliest years. 



Moisgld. 2d April, 179S. 
BEAR SIR, 

Your letter of the 14th of March I received 
ia the due course, but from the hurry of the 
season, have beeu hitherto hindered from an- 
swering it. I will now try to give you what 
satisfaction I can in regard to the particulars 
you mention. 1 cannot pretend to be very ac 
curate in respect to the dates of the poems, but 
uoueof them, except ' Winter, a Dirge' (which 
was a juvenile production,) the ■ Death and 
i).>iiig words cf poor ?.lailie.' and some of the 
songs, were composed before the year 17S4. 
s c : .= . . the po^r sheeo were rret- 
,cr.bed them; he had, 
.. :, bought a ewe and two 

house at Lochlie. lis 



• P 






ety i 



: the i 



formation that the ewe had entangled herself 
the tether, and was lying in the ditch. Rob- 
ert was much tickled with Hughe's appear- 
ance and postures on the occasion. Poor Mailie 
was sei to rights, and when we returned from 
the plough in the evening, he repeated tj me 
her ' death aud djiug words' pretty much in 
the way they now* stand. 

Amuiig the earliest of his poemg was the 
•Epistle to Davie.' fcobert often composed 
without aii} regular plan. When any tiling 
made a strung impression on h s mind, so as to 
ruuse it to any oostic exertion, he would give 
way to the imp aise, aud embody lite thought, in 
Thyme. If he hit on two or three stanzas to 
please him, he would then think of proper in- 
troductory, connecting, and concluding stan- 
zas ; h.mce the middle of a -poem was often 
first produced. It was, 1 taiak, in summer, 
178f, when in the interval of harder labour, 
he and I were needing in the garden [(kail- 
yard), that he repeated to me the principal part 
of this epistle. 1 believe the first idea of Rob- 
eil'a becoming an author was started on this 
o:ca3ion. I was much pleased with the epis- 
tle, and said to him I was of opinion it would 



bear being printed, and that it would be wel 
received by people of taste ; that I thought i 
at least equal, :f not superior, to many of Ai 
Ian Ramsay 's epistles, aud ihat the merit oi 
these, and much other Scottish poetry, seemed 
to consist principally in the knack of the ex- 
pression — but here, there was a strain of iu- 
eresting sentiment, and the scotticism of the 
language scarcely seemed affected, but appear- 
ed to be the natural language cf the poet; that, 
besides, there was certainly some novelty in a 
poet pointing out the consolations that were in 
store for him when he should go a begging. 
Robert seemed very well pleased with my cri- 
ticism ; and we talked of sending it to some 
magazine, but as this plan afforded no oppor- 
tunity of knowing ho.v it would take, the idea 
was dropped. 

It was, I think, in the win'er following, ag 
we were going together with carts for coal to 
!y fire (and 1 could yet point out the 
:r spot) thai the author first repeated 
to me tue ' A.jress to the Dei!. ' The curiotj 
idea of such an address was suggested to him 
by running over in his miud the many ludi- 
crous account; and repreieala ions we have, 
from various quarters, of this susrust person- 
age. • Death and Dr Hornbook. ' though not 
published in the Kilmarnock edition, was pro- J 
duced early in the year 1783. The school- J 
master of Tai bolton parish, to eke up 
ty subsistance allowed to that usetui class of 
men, set up a shop of grocery good;. Having , \ 

_. ;, fallen in with some medical Looks, 
anj become most hobby-horsica I 
tt.e btudy of medicine, be had added the saieof 
a few medicines to his Utile trade. He had 
got a shop-bill printed, at the bottom of which, 
overlooking his own incapacity, he had adver- 
tised, that Advice would be given in common 
disorders at the --hop, gratis. Robert was at 
a mason meeting, in Tarb^iton, when the 
« Dominie* unfortunately made too ostenta- 
tious a display of his medical skill. As he 
parte.i in me evening from th s mix'ure of pe- 
canlr. and physic at the place where he de- 
scribes his meeting with Death, one of ibo«e 
floating ideas or' a;i; ariiion, he mentions in hi* 
le.ter to Dr .Moore, crossed his mind : this set 
him to work for the rest of the way home. 
These ciicumstances he r.Ued when he re- 



not 
t'ol 



BURNS. -APPENDIX. 



pea ted the verses to ma next afternoon, as I 
wa:> holding the plough, and hewa> letting the 
water off" the field beside me. The 'Epistle 
to John Lapraik' was produced exactly on the 
occasion described by the author. He says in 
that poem, ' On fasten e'en we had a rocltin' 
(p. 214). I believe he has omitted the word 
rocking in the glossary. It is a term derived 
from those primitive tunes, when the country- 
women employed their spare hours in spin- 
ning on the rock, or dislatf. This simple in- 
strument is a very portable one, and well fit- 
ted to the social inclination of meeting in a 
neighbour's house ; hence the phrase of ' going 
a-rocking, or with the rock. ' A? the connec- 
tion the phrase had with the impleme.it was 
forgotten when the lock gave way to the spin- 
ning-wheel, the phrase came to be used by 
both sexes on the social occasions, and men 
talk of going with their rocks as well as 
women. 

It was at one of these rockings at our house, 
when we had twelve or fifteen young people 
with tbeir.rocks, that Lapraik's song, begin- 
ning — « When I upon thy bosom lean,' was 
sung, and we were informed who was the 
author. Upon this Robert wrote his first e 
tie to Lapraik ; and his second in reply to 
answer. The verses to the Mouse and Mc 
tain Diisy were composed on the oceasi 
mentioned, and whiie the author was holding 
the plough: I could point out the particular 
spot where each was composed. Holding 
the plough was a. favourite situation with 
Robert for poetic compositions, and some of 
his best verses were produced while he was at 
that exercise. Several of the poems were pro- 
duced for the purpose of bringing forward some 
favourite sentiment of the author. He used 
to remark to me, that he could not conceive a 
more mortifying picture of Human life, than a 
man seeking work. In casting about in his 
mind how this sentiment might be brought 
forward, the elegy, « Man was made to Mourn.' 
was composed. ilobert had frequently re- 
marked to me, that he thought there was some- 
thing peculiarly venerable in the phrase," Let 
lis worship God, " used by a decent sober 
head cf a family introducing family worship. 
To this sentiment of the author, the world is 
indebted for the * Cotter's Saturday Night. ' 
The hint of the plan, and title of tae poem, 
were taken from Fergusoi 's Farmer's Ingle. 
VVhen Robert had rot some pleasure in view 
in which I was not thought tit to participate, 
we used frequently to walk together when the 
weather was favourable on tne Suuday afier- 
nouns ( those precious breaihing-tiines to the 
labouring part ot the community), and enjoy- 
ed such sundaes as would make one regret to 
se: their number abridged. It was in one of 
li;ese walks that I first had the pleasure of 
hearing the author repeat the ' Goner's Satur- 
day Night. ' I do not reco lect to have read or 
heard any thing bv which I was more highly 
electrified. The tilth and sixth stanzas, and 
the eighteenth, thrilled with peculiar ecstasy 
Itirough my soul. I mention this to you, that 
jou may #ee what hit the taste of unlettered 
criticism. I should be glad to know, if the 
enlightened mind and refined taste of Mr 
ilcscoe, who has borne s :ch honourable lesti- 
rnuny to this poem, ogree, with me in the 



selection. Fergusson, in his ' Hallow Fair of 
Edinburgh,' I believe, likewise furnished a hint 
of the title and plan of the ' Holy Fair. • The 
farcical scene the poet there describes wai 
often a favourtie field of bis observation, and 
the most of the incidents he mention; had ac- 
tually passed before his eves. It is scarcely 
neeessar; to mention, that"' The Lament' was 
composea on that unfortunate passage in his 
matrimonial history, which I have mentioned 
in my letter to -Mrs Danlop, after the tirst dis- 
traction of his feelings had a little subsided. 
« The Tale of Twa Dogs' was composed after 
the resolution of publishing was nearly taken. 
Robert had a dog, which he called Luath, 
that was a great favourite. The dog had been 
killed by tke wanton cruelty of some person 
the night before my father's death. Robert 
said to me, that lie should like to confer such 
immortality as he could bestow upon bis old 
friend Luath, and that he bad a great mind to 
introduce something into the book under the 
title of ' Stanzas to the Memory of a quadru- 
ped Friend :' but this plan was given up for 
the Tale as it now stands. ' Csesar' was mere- 
ly the creature of the poet's imagination, crea- 
ted for the purpose of holding chat with his 
favourite Luath. The first time Robert heard 
the spinnet played upon was at the house of Dr 
Lawrie, then minster of the parish of Loudon, 
now in Glasgow, having given up the parish 
in favour of his son. Dr Lawrie has several 
daughters ; one of them played ; the father 
and mother led down the dance; the rest of 
the sisters, the brother, the poet, and the other 
guests, mixed in it. It was a delightful family 
scene for our poet, then lately introduced to 
the world. His mind was roused to a poetic 
enthusiasm, and the stanzas, p. 197, were 
left in the Room where he slept. It was to Dr 
Lawrie that Dr Blacklock's letter was addres- 
sed, which my brother, in his letier to Dr 
Moore, mentions as the reason of his going to 
Edinburgh. 

When my father feued his little property 
near Allowav-Kirk, the wall of the church- 
yard had gone to ruin, and cattle had free liber» 
ly of pasture iu it. My father, with two or three 
other neighbours, joined in an application to 
the town council of A)r, who were superiors 
of the adjoining land, for liberty to rebuild it, 
and raised by subscriation a sum for inclosing 
this ancient cemetery with a wall : hence he 
caaie to consider u as his burial place, and we 
learned that reference for it people generally 
have for the burial place of their ancestors. 
My brother was living in Ellisland, when 
Captain_Gro?e, on his peregriutions through 
Scotland, 6iayed some time at Carse-house in 
the neighbourhood, with Capiain Robert Rid- 
del of Glenriddel, a particular friend of my 
brother's. The Antiquarian and the Poet 
were '• Unco pack and thick thegither. " Ro- 
bert requested of Captain Grose, when he 
should come to Ayrshire, that he would make 
a drawing of Ailoway-Kirk, as it was the 
burial-place of his faiiier, where he himself 
had a sort of claim to lay down his bones when 
they should be no longer serviceable to him ; 
and added, by way of encouragement, that it 
was the scene cf many a good story of witchee 
and apparitions, of which he knew ihe C'apt.m 
was very fend. Ths Captain agreed to ihe re- 



3CS 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



quest, provided the poet weald furt.ish a witch 
stoiv. lobe printed along with it. " Tain o' 
Shanier" was produced o;i this occasion, and 
was first published in •' Grose's Antiquities cf 
Scotland.'" 

The poem is founded on a traditional story. 
The leading circumstances of a man riding 
home very late from Ayr, in a stormy night, 
Lis seeing a light in AUoway Kirk, having 
the curiosity to look in, his seeing a dance of 
witches, with the devil playing on the bag-pipe 
to tbeui, the scanty covering of one of iLi 
witches, which made him so far forget himself 
as to cry — " Weel \ou pen, shot t sark !" — v.ith 
the melancholy catastrophe of the piece ; it is 
all a true story that can be wei! attested by 
main respectaDie old people; in that ne;ghbou.- 

i co not at present recollect any circumstan- 



cther 



that ( 



be at all interesting ; even some of those I 
}. ave mentioned, I am afraid, may appear tri- 
rlir-g enough, but you will only mate use of 
what appears to you of consequence. 

The following poems in the first Edinburgh 
edition were not in that published in Kil- 
marnock. 'Death and Dr Hornbook ;'■ The 
Brigs of Ayr;' 'The Calf;' (the poet had 
teen with Mr Gavin Hamilton in the morning, 
who said jocularly to him when he was going 
to church, in allusion to the injunction of some 
parents to their children, that he must be sure 
to bring a note of the sermon at mid-day ; this 
address to the Reverend Gentleman on his test 
was accordingly produced;) 'Ordination;' 
•The Address "(o the Unco Cuid ;' ' Taui 
Samson's Elegy 



i the 



seeing 



: pressure c 



st a Reverend Fri 
salm,' 'Prayer under 
ar.suish;' • The first 
tiethP,alm ;' • Verses 
to Miss Logan, with Beattie's Poems ;' 'To 
a Haggis;' 'Address 10 Edinburgh;' « John 
Barleycorn;' «• When Guildford Gnid ;' 'Be- 
hind yon hills where Stino-har flows ;' ' Green 
grow the Rashes;' 'Again rejoicing .Nature 
tees;' 'The gloomy Kigali' • No Church- 
man am I. ' 

If you have never seen the first edition, it 
will, perhaps, not be amiss to transcribe the 
preface, that you may see the manner in which 
the Poet made his first awe-struck approach 
to the bar of public judgment. 

PREFACE TO THE FIEST EDITION 



«• The following Trifles are not the produc- 
tion of the poet, who, with all the advantages 
of learned art, and perhaps, amid the elegances 
and idlenesses of upper life, looks down for 
a rural theme, with an eye to Theocritus or 
Virgil, 'io the author cf ibis, these and other 
celebrated nati.es, their countrymen, ere, at 
;east in Ihei- original languages * a fountain 
5 bat up, and a book sealed.' Unacquainted 
with the necessary requisites for commencing 
poet bv rule, he sings the sentiments and man- 
ners he felt and saw in himself and his rustic 
evsuprers around him, in his and their unlive 




language. Though a rhymer from his errlie,! 
years, at least from his earliest impulses of the 
softer passions, it was not till very lately that 
the applause, perhaps the partiality, of friend- 
ship, awakeued his vanity .-o for as to i ' 
him think any thing of his worth show 
and none of the following works were c 
ed with a view to the press. To a 
self with the little creations of bis own fancy, 
amid the toils and fatigues of a laborious life : 
fo transcribe ihe various f.elwgs, the love 
the griefs, the hopes, the fears, ir, his own 
breast ; to find some kind of counterpoise to 
the struggles of a world, always an alien scene, 
a task uncouth to the poetical mind — these 
were his motives for courting the muses, ana 
in these he found poetry to be its own reward. 

" Now tbat he appears •:. !te public charac- 
ter cf an author, he does it with fear and trem- 
bling. So dear is fame to the rhyming tribe, 
that even he, an obscure, nsnicless" Eard, 
shrinks aghast at the thought of being branded 
as — an impertinent blockhead, obtruding his 
nonsense on the world ! and, because he csn 
make a shift to jingle a few dcggeiel Scotch 
rhymes together, looking upon himself as a 
poet of no small consequence forsooth I 

" It is an observation of that celebrated pret 
Shenstone, whose divine elegi.g do honour to 
cur language, cur nation, and our species, that 
' Hum.iity has depressed many a genius to a 
hermit, but never raised one to fame ! ' If any 
critic catches at the word 'genius,' the author 
tells him once for .all, that he certainly looks 
upon himself as possessed of some poetic abili- 
ties, oiherw ise his publishing in the manner 
he has done, would be a manoeuvre btlcw the 
worst character which be hopes his worst 
enemy will ever give him. But to the genius 
of a Buuisay , or the glorious dawnings of the 
poor unfortunate Fergusson, he, with equally 
unaffected sincerity, declares, (hat even in his 
b-gh est pulse cf vanity, he has not the most 
distant pretentions. These two ju=tly admir- 
ed So ttish poets he Las often had in bis eye in 

to kincle at their Same, than for stniie imita- 
tion. 

" To his subscribers the Aulhor returns 
his most sincere thanks. Not the mercenary 
bow over a counter, but the heart-throbbing 
gratitude of a bard, conscious hew much he 
owes tu benevolence and friendship, for grati- 
fyir.ghin:, if he deserves it, in that dearest 
wish cf every poetic boscrn — to be distinguish- 
ed. He begs his rer.deis, particularly the learn- 
ed and tht polit-, wl.o may honour him wiih a 
perusal, that li;;y v. ill make every allowance 
for education a/.a circumstances of life ; but, 
if after a fair, cai.did, and impartial criticism, 
he shall stand convicted of auincss and ncu- 
sense, let him be dene by as he would in that 
case do by others — Let him be condemned, 
without mercy, to contempt and oblivion." 



Your cicst obedient humble servant, 

GILBERT BURNS. 



Dji Cub k ie, Liverpool. 



BURNS. _ APPENDIX. 



To this history of the poems which are con- 
tained in this volume, it may be added, that 
our author appears to have made little altera- 
tion in them after their original composition, 
except in some few instances, where consider- 
able additions bave been introduced. After 
he had attracted the notice of the public by his 
tirst edition, various criticisms were offered 
him on the peculiarities of his style, as well as 
of his sentiments, and seme of these which re- 
main among his mainuripls, are by persons of 
great tas e and judgment. Some few of these 
criticisms he adopted, but far the gi eater part 
he rejected ; and, though something has by this 
mea:'s been lost in point of delicacy and cor- 
rectness, >et a deeper impression is left of the 
strength and criginaliiy of his genius. The 
hrmness of our pjcl's character, arising from 
a just conhdence in his own powers, may, in 
part explain his lenaciouscess of his peculiar 
expressions ; but it may be in some degree ac- 
counted for also, by the circumstances under 
which the poems were composed. Burns did 
not, like men of genius torn under happier 
auspices, re;ire, in ihe moment of inspiration, 
to the silence ana solitude ef his study, and 
cjtnrait his verses to paper as they arranged 
themselves in his mind. Fortune did not af- 
ford him this indulgence. It was during the 
toils of daily labour that his fancy exerted 
itelf; the muse, as he himself informs us, 
found him at the plough. In this situation, it 
was necessary to fix his verses on his memory, 
and it was often many da\s, nay weeks, after 
u poem was finished, before it was written 
do*n. During ail this time» by frequent re- 
petition, ihe association between the thought 
aud the expression was confirmed, and the iin- 
partiilitv of taste with which written language 
ig reviewed and retouched after it has faded on 
the memory, could not in such instances be 
exerted, 'ihe original manuscripts of many 
of his poems are preserved, and they differ in 
nothing material from the last printed edition. 
Some few variations may be noticed. 

1. In The 'Author's earnest Cry and 
Prayer', after the Stanza, p. 93, beginning, 

Erskine, a spunkie Noreland Billie, 



Thee, sodger Hugh, my watchman stented 

If Bardies e'er are represented ; 

I ken if that your sword were wanted 

Ye'd iend \our hand, 
But when there's ought to say anent it. 

Ye're at a stand. 

* Sodger Hugh' is evidently the present Earl 
of Eglinton, then Colonel Montgomery of 
Coilsheld, and representing in Parliament the 
county of Ayr. Why this was ieft out in 
printing, does not appear. The noble Earl 
will not be sorry to see this .iolice of him, 
familiar though it be, by a bard whose genius 
he admired, and whose fate he lamented. 

2. In • The Address to the Dei!, * the seventh 
stanza, in pnge 176, ran originally thus : 

Lang syne in Eden's happy scene. 
When Birr pptu' Adam's days were green, 



And Eve was like my lonnle Jean, 



The Elegy on poor Mailie, the second 
n page 17J. beginning, 

She was nae get o' moorland lips, 



is, at first, n 



fcik'N 



She was nae get o' runted rams, 

Wi' woo' like ^oats, and legs like trains ; 

fc^he was the dower o' Faiilie lambs, 

A famous breed ; 
Now Robin, greetin, chows the hams 

O Mailio ue„d. 

It were a pity that the Fairlic lambs should lose 
the honour o:ice intended them. 

4. But the chief variati ns are found in the 
poems introduced, for the first time, in the edi- 
tion in two volumes small octavo, published in 
1792. Of the poem written in Friar's Carse 
Hermitage there aie several editions, and one 
of these* has nothing in common with the 
printed poem but the four first lines. The 
poem that is published, which was his second 
effort on the subject, received considerable aU 
teratious in printing. 

Instead of the six lines beginning, 

Say man's true genius estimate, 

in manuscript the following are inserted. 

Stay ; the criterion of their fate, 
Th' important querv of their state, 
Is not, art thou high or low ? 
Did thy fortune ebb or flow ? 
Wert thou cottager or king ? 
Prince or peasant ?— no such thing. 

5. The « Epistle to R. G. of F. Esq. ' that 
is, to K. Graham of Finlry, Esq. also under- 
went considerable alterations, as may be collect- 
ed from the volume of Correspondence. This 
style of poetry was new to our poet, and 
though he was fitted to excel in it, it cost him 
more trouble than his Scottish poetry. On 
the contrary, « Tarn o' Shanter seems to hate 
issued perfect from the authoi's brain, 'lha 
only considerable alteration made on reflection 
is the omission of four lines, which had been 
inserted after the poem was linisued, at the 
end of the dreadful catalogue of the articles 
found on the ■ haly table,' aud which appear- 
ed in the fiist edit;on of the poem, printed sepa- 
rately. They came after the 6ixth line from 
the bottom of p. 216. 






o name would be unlawfu'. 



and are as follow : 

Three lawyers' tongues turn'd inside o 
Wi' lies seaia'd liks a beggar's clout, 



* This is gi-.en in the Corresponded 



DIAMOND CABINET LIERAUY. 



These lines, which, independent of other ob- 
Jectxns, interrupt and destroy the emotions 
of terror which the preceding description had 
excited, were very properly left out of the print- 
ed collection, by the advice of Mr Fraser 
Tytler; to which Burns seems to have paid 
some deference. 



While ei 

Walks stately in the cooling shade ; 
And oft delighted lo es to trace 

The progress of the spiky blade ; 
While autumn, benefactor kind, 

With age's hoary honours clad, 
Surveys, with self-approving mind, 

Each creature on his bounty fed, &c. 

By the alteration in the printed poem, it rosy 
be questioned whether the poetry is much im- 
proved ; the pcet however ha3 found means to 
introduce the shades of Dryburgh, tb.6 reiidence 
of the Earl of Buchan, at whose request these 
versas were written. 

These observations might be extended, but 
what are already offered will satisfy curiosity, 
and there is nothing of any importance that 
could be added. 



GLOSSARY. 



1* ch and g* have always the guttural sound. The sound of .he Eng hsh d.pU bong oo 
monly spelled ou. The French «, a sound which olten occurs in the Scottish laan 
marked oo. or ill. The a in genuine Scottish word,, except when forming a dahlia 
followed by e mute after a single consonant, sounds generally like the broad Englis 
The Scottish diphthong «, always, and ea, very often, I 
The Scottish diphthong ey, sounds like the Latin ci. 



fnd like the French, e uiasculiu 



A', Ail- 
Aback, away, alonf. 
Abeigh, at a shy distance. 
Aboon, above, up. 
Abroad, abroad, in sight. 
Abreed, in breadth. 
Addle, putrid water, &e. 
Ae, one. 

Aff, off; Affloof, unpreme 
Afore, before. 
Aft, of i, 
Aften, often. 

Agley, off the right line; w 
Aiblins, perhaps. 
Ain, own. 

Airle-penny, Airles, earnest 
Aim, iron. 
Aith, an oath. 
Aits, oats. 
Aiver, an old horse. 
Aizle, a hot cinder. 
Alake, alas. 
Alane, alone. 
Akwart, awkward. 
Amaist, almost, 
Amang, among. 
An', and ; An, if. 

Ane, one ; and. 

Anilher, another. 
Ase, ashes. 

Asklent, avquint ; asl'_:-'. 
/■steer, abroad ; Btinriu... 



Athai 



athw 



Aught, possession; as, In a Biy a«j 

my possession. 
Auld lang syne, olden time, days 

years. 
Auld. old. 
Auldfarren, or, auld far rant, sagaci 

Ding, prudent. 
Ava, at all. 

Awtu', awful. 

Awn, the beard of barley, oats, &c. 



Ba% Ball. 

Backets, ash boards. 
Backlins earning, coming i 
Hack, returning. 
Bad, did bid. 
Baide, endured, did stay, 
the bell; 






a child. 






Bang, to beat ; U 
Baruie, diminutii 
Baretit, barefoot e 
Baruiie, of, or lik 
Batch, a crew, a 
Bats, bots, 
Baudrons, a eat. 
Bauld. bold, 
Bawk, bank, 

Be, to let be ; to 
Bear, barley. 

Beet, to add fuei 
B id, bald. 
Belyve, by and b 
Ben, into the sne 
Benlouiond, 



lOL£li 



Belhankit, grace after meat. 

Beuk, a book. 

Bicker, a kind of wooden dish ; 

Jiiel or B.eld, shelter. 

Bien, wealthy, plentiful. 

Big, to build. 

Big K in, buildinffj a house. 

Biggit, built. 

Bill, ahull. 



BURNS. -GLOSSARY. 



Bit. crisis, nick of Cme. 
Kizz, a buttle, to buzz. 
ii:a tie, a shrivelled dwarf ; a term ( 

Blastit, blasted. 

Bate, bashful, sheepish. 

liialheri bladder. 

Mladd, a flat piece of any think ; to sh 

Blaw, to blow, to boast. 

Bleerit, bleared, fere with rheum. 

Blesrt and Win', bleared and biiud. 

Bleezing, blazing-. 

Bleilum, an idle talking fellow. 

Blether, to talk idlv ; nonsense. 

Bleth'rin', talking idtj . 

Bli.ik, a little while ; a smiling look ; I 

kindly ; to shine by tits. 
Blinker, a term of contempt. 
Blinkin, smirking. 
Blue gown, one o:' those lecrcrs, who 

Dually, 



her, a brother. 
Brock, a badger. 
Brogue, a bum ; a trick. 
Broo, Lrolh ; a triek. 
"roose, broth; a race at country v.eddi 

who shall first reach the bridegroom 'a hou.- I 

on returning from church. 

owster-vvives, ale-house wives. 
Brugh, a burgh. 
Bruilzie, a broil, a combustion. 
Brunt, did burn, burnt. 
Brust, to burst ; Burst. 
Su-cLan. fullers, the boiling of the sea anion, 

the rocks of Euchan. 

uckskin, an inhabitant of Virginia. 
Bughi, a pen, 
Btightin-time, the time of collGCtinrr the sherp 

n the pens to be milked. 
Buirdlj , stout ruude ; I road made. 
" j-clock, a humming beetle ma; flies "u 



Bluid, blood. 
B!u:i:ie, a snivel! 
Blype, a shred, 
Bock, to v 



a badge. 

: r iargVpicce': er " 0n ' 

> gush !iilerm:;tci:'Jj 



Hunker, a windo 
Uurdies, diminut 
e, did besr. 



Eocked, gushed,, 

Bcdle, a small gold coin. 

Bogles, spirits, btbgoblins. 

Bonnie or Bonny, handsome, beautiful. 

Bonnock, a kind of thick cake of bread, 

small jannock, or loaf made of oat-uieal, 
Boord, a board. 
Boorlree, the shrub elder; planted much of 

old in hedges or barn-yards, &c. 
Boost, behaved, o must needs. 
Bore, a hole in the wall. 
Botch, an angry tumour. 
Bousing, drinking. 
Bow-kail, cabbage. 
Bowt, bended, crooked, 
Brackens, fern. 
Brae, a declivity ; a precipice ; the slope of 

bill. 
Braid, broed. 
Kraiiule-';, reeled forward. 
Bi-aik, a kind of harrow. 
Braiudge, to run rashiy forward. 
Brak,- bruke, n)ade insolvent. 
Branks, a king of woode;. curb for horses. 
Brash, a sudden iimea. 
Brats, i 



Burnt! 

Buruie, oiminuti 

Buskie, bushy. 
Buskit, dressed. 
Busks, dresses. 

a bustle : 
Buss, i 



Brawly 


or Bra * lie, 


very w 


heart 


ly. 






a morbid sheep 






, diminutive of breast. 




, did spring up 


or forward. 


Brecka 


i, fern. 






n invulnerable 


or irresislib 


Breeks, 


breeches. 




Brent, 


smooth. 




lire win 


, brewing. 




Brie, ji 






Brig, a 






Urunst 


ne, brimstone. 




Brisket 


the brea&ti the 


bosom. 



of birds, 

rivulet, 
burn the win 
tive of Luin. 



But, bot, 



ilh ; i 



ben, tbe c 
By hiniseli, lunatu 
B\ke, a bee-hive. 
Byre, a cow-stable 



ii enclosure for calv 



Canie or Ctm.ie, gentle 

tie or Cauty, ct.ceri 
Cantraip, a charm, a s 
Cape-stane, cope-stone 
Careerin, cheerfully. 
Carle, an old man. 
Carliu, a stout old wot 
Cartes, cards. 
Caudron, a caldron. 
Cauk and ksel, chalk a 



Caulc. 
Caup, : 



n drinkin 



Chap, a pei&oii, a : 
Chanp, a stroke, a 
Cheeki:, cheeked. 
Cbeep, a chirp; U 
Chiel or Cheel, a y 



BLltN 9. -GLOSSARY. 



Chim la or Cliimlie, a fire-grate, a fire-place. 

Cbiiii'c. lug, (lie fireside. 

Cluttering, shivering, trembling. 

Chock, n, choking. 

Chow, to chew : Cheek for enow, side by siue. 

Churn*, fat-face -!, 

Clachan, a suiaii village about a church ; a 

hamlet. 
Ciaise or Claes, clothes. 

Clahhing, clobing. 

Claivers, nonsense : not sense. 

Clao, clapper of a mi'.!, 

Clarkit, wrote. 

Clash, an idle tale, the story of the day. 

Clatter, to tell idle stores ; an idle story. 

Claught, snatched at, laid hold of. 

Oat, to clean ; to scrape. 

Clnuted. scraped. 

Cavers, idie s'ories. 

C aw, to tcratch. 



Cleekit, having caught. 

Cli k.n, jelkiug, clinking. 

.i, he nhu rings the chv 
Clips, shears. 

Clishtuaclaver, idle conversation. 
Clock, 10 hatch ; a beetle. 



Clot 



. i:J 



Clout, the hoof of a cow, sheep, &c. 

Clootie, an old name for the devil. 

Clour, a bump or swelling after a blow. 

Cluds, clouJo. 

Coasin, wheedling. 

Coble, i fishing boat. 

Coekernony, a iock of hair tied upon a girl's 

head ; a cap. 
Colt, bought. 
Cog, a wooden dish. 
Co;-gie, diminutive of cog. 
Coila, from Kyle, a district of Ayrshire ; so 

called, saith tradition, from Coil, or Coilus, 

a Pictish monarch. 

i genera! and sometimes a particular 



efor 






Coiliesbangie, quarrelling, an uproar. 

Cood. the cud. 

Coof, a blockhead, ninny. 

Cookiti appeared and disappeared by Gts. 

Coost, did cast. 

Coot, the ancie or foot. 

Cootie, a wooden kitchen dish: — also, those 

fowls whose legs are clad with feathers are 

said to be coolie. 
Corbies, a species of the crow. 
Core, cor-^s ; party ; clan. 
Corn'd, fed with oats. 
Cotier, the inhabitant of a cot-house, or cot- 



tag* 
Couth 



, kind, loving. 



Co.ve, to terrify ; to keep under, to lop ; lo 

fright j a branch of furze, broom, &c. 
Cowp, to barter ; tumble over ; a gang. 
Cowpil, tumbled. 



Cozie,o.iug. 
Coziely, snugly. 
Crabbit, crabbed, fretful. 



Cr-.tek, conversation ; lo converse, 
: Crackin, conversing. 

! Craft, or croft, a field near a house (m old 
husbandry). 



Crank, the noise of an ungreased wheel. 

Crankous, fretftl, captious. 

Cranreucb, the hoar frost. 

Crap, a crop ; to crop. 

Craw, the crow of a cock ; a rook. 

Creel, a basket ; to have one's wits in a creel, 

to be crazed ; to be fascinated. 
Creepie-stool, (he same as cutty-stool. 
Creeshie, greasy, 
Crood, or croud, to coo as a dove. 
Croon, a hollow aud continued moan; to 

make a noise like the coui-inued roar of a 

bull ; to hum a tune. 
Crooning, humming. 
Croucbie, cro-ik backed. 
Crcose, cheerf.ii ; courageous. 
Ov-usely, cheerfully; courageously. 
Crowdie, a composition of oat-meal and boil. 

ed water, sometimes from the broth of beef, 

Crcweie-thne, breakfast time. 

Crowlin, crawling. 

Crummock, a cow with crocked horns. 

Crump, hard aud brittle, spoken of bread. 

Crunt, a blow on the head with a cudgel. 

Cuif, a blockhead, a ninny. 

Cummock, a short staff with a crooked head. 

Curler, a player at a game on the ice, prac- 
tised in Scotland, called curling. 

Curlie, curled, whose hair fails naturally in 
ringlets. 

Curling, a well known game on the ice. 

Cuiniurring, murmuring; a slight rumbling 

Curpiu, the crupper. 

Custiat, tiie dove, or wood-pigeon. 

Cutty , short ; a spoon broken in the middle. 

Cutty-stool, the stuoi of repentance. 

1> 

DADDIE, a father. 

Daffin, merriment; foolishness. 

Daft, merry, giudy ; foolish. 

Daimcn, rare, now and then ; daimen-icker, ar 

ear of corn now aud then. 
Dainty, pleasant, good humoured, agreeable-- 
Daiee or Daez, to stapify. 
Dries, plains, valleys. 



Daurt, dared. 

Dnurg or Jlaurk, a day's labour. 

Davoc, David. 

Da-Ad, a large piece. 

Dawtit or Dawtet, fondled, caressed. 

Dearies, diminutive of dears. 

Drarthfa', dear. 

Deave, <o deafen. 

Deil-uia care, no matter, for all that. 

Deleeri!, delirious. 

Descrive, to describe. 

Dight, to wipe; to clean corn from chafii 



BURNS.- GLOSSARY. 



Ciglit, cleaned from chuff. 

Ding, to worst, to push. 

Dink, neat, tidy, trim. 

Dinna, do not. 

Dirl, a slight tremulous stroke or pain. 

Dizanor Dizz'n, a dozen. 

Doited, stupid, hebetated. 

Dolt, stupid, crazed. 

Donsie, unlucky. 

Dool, sorrow; to sing dool, to lament, 

Doos, doves. 

Douce or Douse, sober, wise, prudent. 

Doucely, soberly, prudently. 

Dought, was or were able. 

Doup, backside. 

Doup-skelper, ore that strikes the tail. 

Dour and din, sullen and sallow. 

Doure, stout, durable ; sullen, stubborn. 

Dow, am or are able, can. 

llowiY, pithless, wanting force. 

Dowie, worn with grief, fatigue, cave ; I 

Downa, am or are not able, cannot. 
Doylt, stupid. 

Dozent, Opined, impotent. 
• Drap, a on.p ; to drop. 
Draigle, to soil by trailing, 
et, &c. 



dra f :.:. 



Drapping, vlroppin^. 

Drauitin^, drawling ; of a slow cnunciati 
Dreep, to ooze, to drop. 
Driegh, tedious, long about it. 
Dribble, drizzling; slaver. 
Drift, a drove. 
Droddum, the breech. 
Drone, part of a bagpipe. 
Droop-rumpl't, that droops at the crupper 
Droukit, wet. 
Drounting. drawling. 
Drouth, thirst, drought. 
Drucken, drunken. 
Drumly, muddy. 

Drummock, meal and water mixed in i 
state. 



Drui 









Dub, a small pond. 
Duds, rags, clothes. 
Duddie, ragged. 
Dung, worsted ; pushed, 
Dunted, beaten, bosed. 
Dush, to push as a a ram, 
Dusht, pushed by a ram, i 



E enmg, evening. 
Eerie, frighted, drsr 
Ei!d, old age. 
Elbuck, the elbow. 
Eldritch, gbasliv, frightful. 
Eller, an elder, "or church urT 
En', end. 

Enbrugh, Edinburgh. 
Eneugb, enough. 
Especial, especially. 
Ettle, to try, to attempt. 
Eydent, diligent. 



FA", fall; lot : to fell. 
Fa's, does fall; water-fall: 
Faddom't, fathomed. 

Faem, foam. 

Faiket, bated. 

Fairin, a fairing ; a presen 

Fallow, fellow. 

Fand, did find. 

Farl, a cake of oaten bread, 

Fash, trouble, care ; to trot 

Fasht. troubled. 

Fasteren e'en, Fasten's eve 

Fauld, & fold ; to fold. 

Faulding, folding. 

Faut, fault. 

Faute, want, lack. 

Fawsont, decent, seemly. 

Feal, a field ; smooth. 

Fearfu', frightful. 

Ftart, frighted. 

Feat, neat, spruce. 

Fecht, to Jiiht. 

Fechtin, fighting. 

Feck, quantity, plenty. 






ncUr v 



wnj, 



Meckel 
Peckfu', large, 
Feckless, puny, 
Feckly, nearly. 
Feg, a Cg. 
Feide, feud, enm 
Feire, stout, vig 
Fell, keen, biting 
der the skin ; i 



Fetch, to puil by fits. 
Fetch'!, pulled intermittently. 

Fidge, to lid<jet. 
Fiel, soft, smooth. 
Fient, fiend, a pet ly oath. 
Fier, sound, healthy ; a brother 
Fissle, to make a rustling noi 
a bustle. 



lat with sleeves. 



i of the hindmost 



Flanuin, flannel. 

Fleech, to supplicate in a flattering manner. 

Fleech'd, supplicated. 

Fleeching, supplicating. 

Fleeah, a fleece. 

Fleg, a kick, a random stroke. 

Fie' tier, to decoy by fair words. 

Fletheria, flattering. 

Fiey, to scare, to frighten. 

Flichter, to flutter, as young nestlings whtn 

their dam approaches. 
Flinders, shreds, broken pieces, splinters. 
Fiinging-tree, a piece ot timber hung by way 

of partition between two horses in a stable ; 

a flail. 
<"lisk, to fret a! the yoke. Fliskes, freCcd. 
''litter, to vibrate like the wings of small 

birds. 



BUKNS GLOSSARY. 



Flitlering, fluttering, vibrating. 
Flunkie, a servant in livery. 
Fodgel, squat ant! plump. 
Food, a ford. 
Forbears, forefathers. 
Forbye, besides. 

Forfairn, distressed ; worn out, jaded. 
Fotf.ughten, fatigi.cd. 
Forgather, tc meet, to encounter with. 
Forgie, tt forgive. 
Forjesket, jaded with fatigue. 
Fother, fodder. 
Foil, full ; drunk. 
Foughten, troubled, harassed 
Fouth, plenty, enough, or more than enough. 
Fow, a bushel. &c ; also a pitch-fork. 
Frae, from ; off. 

Frammit, slrange, estranged from, at enmity 
with. 



Fud, the scut, or tail of the hare, cony, &c. 

Fuff, to blow intermittently. 

Fuff't, did blow. 

Funtiie, full of r 

Fur, a furrow. 

Furrn, a form, bench. 

Kyle, trifling cares ; to piddle, to be in a. fuss 

about trifles. 
Fyle, to soil, to dirty. 
Fyi't, soiled, dirtied. 



Gab, the mouth ; to ppeak boldly, or pertly, 

G.iherhtnzie, an old man. 

Gadsman, a ploughboy, the boy that drives the 

hurscs in the plough. 
Gae, to go ; gaed, w-eut ; gaen organe, gone ; 



Gawky, half-fitted foolish, romp ; ng. 

Glaizie, glittering; smooth like glass. 

Glaum, to snatcb\reedily. 

Glaum 'd, aimed, snatched. 

Gleck, sharp, ready. 

Gleg, sharp, ready, 

Glieb, glebe. 

dale, a deep valley. 
Gley, a squint ; to squint ; a-gley, off a 

side, wrong. 
Glib-gabbet, smooth and ready in speech. 
Glint, to peep. 
Glinted, peeped. 
Glintiu, peeping. 
Gloamin! the twiliglt. 
Glowr, to stare, tolook; a stare, a look. 
Glowrid, looked, stared. 

Goavin, looking round with a strange, inq 



Gael, 



, gom 



bottom of a 



ilk. 



Gar, to make, to force to. 

Gar't, forced to. 

Garten, a garter. 

Gash, wise, sagacious , talkative ; to conve 

Gashin, conversing. 

Gaucy, jolly, large. 

Gaud, a plough. 

Gear, riches ; go^s of any kind. 

Geek, to toss the head in wanenness or sc 

Ged, a pike. 

Gentles, great folk, gentry. 

Genty, elegantly f^rnu-d, neat. 

Geordie. a guinea. 

Get, a child, a young one. 

Ghai-t. a ghost. 

'iie, to give ; gied, g ve ; gion, criven. 

Giftie, diminutive of gift. 

Giglets, playful girls. 

Gillie, diminutive of gilt 

Gilpey, a half grown, half informed bo 

girl, a romping Ian, a lioiden. 
G.mmer, a ewe fom one to two y R rs old. 
Gin. if ; against. 
Gipsey, a young girl. 
(Jim, to grin, to twist the features in rage 

agony, &c. 
Girning, grinning. 



w k. 



weed, &c. 

Gowany, daised, abounding with daisies. 

Gowd, gold. 

Gowff, the game of golf ; to strike as the bat 
does the ball at goif. 

GowHM, struck. 

Gowk, a cuckoo ; a term of contempt. 

Gowl, to howl. 

Grane, or grain, a groan ; to groan. 

Grain'd and grunted, groaned and grunted. 

Graining, groaning. _ 

Graip, a pronged instrument for cleaning 
stables. 

Graith, accoutrements, furniture, dress, gear. 

Grannie, grandmother. 

Grape, to grope. 

Grapit, groped. 

Giat, wept, shed tears. 

Great, intimate, familiar. 

Gree, to agree ; to bear the gree, to be decid- 
edly victor. 

Gree't, agreed. 

Greet, to shed tears, to weep. 

Greetin, crying, weeping. 

Grippet, etitched, seized. 

Groat, to get the whistle of one's great, to 
play a Icing game. 

Grousome, loathsomely grim. 

Grozet, a gooseberry. 

Grumph, a grunt j to grunt. 

Grun', ground. 

the phiz 



Grun: 



nth. 



Grushie, thick; of thrii 

Gude, the Supreme Being"; "good. 

Guid, good. 

Guid-e'en, good evening. 
Guidmau and guidwife. the mai 
of the house ; voung guic 
ji married. 



K 



BURNS.- GLOSSARY. 



HA'. 



^r. 



3b>, the great bible lhat lies in the hall. 

llae, lo hare. 

llaen, had, the par:icip!e. 

Haet, cent haet, a petty oath of negation ; no- 
thing. 

Hafi'et, the temple, the side cf the head. 

Hafilics, nearly half, partly. 

Hajf, a scar, or gulf in mosses, and mo^rs. 

Ua ?gis. a kind of pudding boiled in the sto- 
mach of a cow or sheep. 

Hain, to spare, to save. 

Hain'd, spared. 

Hairst, harvest. 

Haith, a petty oath. 

Haivers, nonsense, Lpeakinj without thought. 

Ha!', or Huld, an abiding place. 

Hale, whole, light, healthy. 

Haly, holy. 

Hallun, a particular partition-wall in a cot- 
tage, or more properly a seat of turf at the 

Hallowmas, Hallow-eve, the 31st of October. 

Hame, home. 

Hamely, homely, affable. 

Han', or Haun', hand. 

Hap, an outer garment, mantle, plaid, &c to 

wrap, to cover; to hop, 
Happer, a hopper. 
Happing, hopping. 
Hap step an* loup, hop skip and leap. 
Karkit, barkened. 
Ham, very coarse linen. 
Hash, a fellow that neither knows how to 

dress cor act with propriety. 
Hastit, hastened. 
Hand, to hold. 

Haughs, low lying, rich lands ; valleys. 
Haur!, to drag ; to peel. 
Hauriin, peeling. 

Haverel, a halfwitted person ; half-witted. 
Havius, good manr.trs, decorum, good -er.se. 
Hawkie, a cow, properly one with a white 

face. 
Heapit, heaped. 

Heaisome, heahhful, wholesome. 
Hearse, hoarse. 
Hear't, hear it. 
Heather, heath. 
Hech ! oh ! strange ! 
Iiecht, promised ; to foretell something that 

is to be got or given; foretold; the thing 

foretold ; offered. 
Heckle, a board, in which are fixed a number 

cf sharp pins, used in dressing hemp, ilsjc, 

&c. 
Heeze, to elevate, lo rai = e. 
Helm, the rudder rr h- !m. 
Herd, to lend flocks ; cue who tends flocks. 
Herrin, a herring. 
Herry, to plunder ; most properly to plunder 

birds' nests. 
Herryment, plundering, devastation. 
Hersel, herself; also a Herd of caltle, of any sort. 
Hef, hot. 

Heuj;h, a erng-, a coalpit. 
Hilch, a hobble; to halt, 
Uilchin, halting. 



Kim-el, himself, 

Hiney, honey. 

Hing, to hang. 

Hirple, lo walk crazily, to creep. 

Hissel, so many cattle as one person can at- 

Hasiie, dry ; chapped ; barren. 

Hitch, a loop, a knot. 

Hizzie, a hussy, a young girL 

Hcddin, the motion of a sage countryman rid- 
ing on a cart horse; humble. 

Hog-score, a kind of distance line, in curling, 
drawn across the rink. 

Hcg-s heather, a kind of horse play, by justling 
with the shoulder? tojustle. 

Hool, cuter skin or case, a nut shell ; a pease, 
cod. 

Hoolie, slowly, leisurely. 

Hoolie ! take leisure, stop. 

Hocrd, a board ; lo hoard. 

Hoorriii, hoarded. 

Horn, a spoon made of born. 

Hornie. cr.e of the many names of the devil. 

Host, or hoast, to cough ; a ccogh. 

Ho?. tin, coughing. 

Ho-ts, coughs. 

Hot eh 'd, turu'd topsyturvy ; biended, mixed. 

Hou»hmagandie f fornication. 

Hculet, an owl. 

Housie, diminutive of house. 

Hove, to heave, to sweli. 

Hoved, hea\ed, 6weiled. 

Howdie, a midwife. 

Howe, hollow; a hollow or dell. 

Howebackit, sunk in the back, spoken of 

Howff, a tippling house ; a house of resort. 
Howk. to dig. 
Howkit, digged. 
Howk n, digging. 



K-.-.v 



«rl. 



Hoy, b 
Key's, urged. 
Hoyse, to pull upwards. 
Hov'e, to arable crazily. 
Hugrhoc, diminutive of Hugh. 
Hiiicheon, a hedgehog. 
Hurdies, the loins ; the crupper. 
Hushion, a cushion. 

1 

I', in. 

Icker, an ear of c^rn. 

Ter-oe, a great-grandchild. 

Ilk, or Ilka, each, every. 

Ill-wiibe, ill-natured, malicious, niggardly. 

Ingine, gerius, ingenuity. 

I'igle, fire ; fiie-place. 

Ise, I shall or will. 

Ither, other ; one another. 



JAO, jade ; also a familiar term atcong coua 

try folks for a giddy young girl. 
Jauk, to dally, to trifle. 
Jaukin, trifling, dallying. 
Jaup, a jerk of water; to jerk as agitated 



BURNS — GLOSSARY. 



let, a jerkin, or short gov; 

i a jilt, a giddy girl. 

, to jump ; slender in !he 



Jink, 



img ; 



~^:-, 



sprightly 



turns quickly ; 

giri; a wag. 
Jiukin, dodging. 
J irk. a jerk. 

Jccteleg, a kind of knife. 
Jouk, to stoop, to bow ihe head. 
Jow, to jow, a verb which includes both the 

swinging motion and pealing sound of a 

Junute, tojustle. 



KAE, a daw. 

Kail, colewort ; a kind of broth. 

Kail-runt, the stem of colewort. 

Kai-i, fowls, ic raid as rent by a farmer. 
Kebbuck, a cheese. 
Keck'.e, to g'ggle ; to titter. 
Reek, a pec-p, to peep. 

Kelpies, a sort of mischievous spirits, said lo 
haunt fords and ferries at night, especially 

Ken, to kuow ; Kend or Kenn'd, known. 

Kpiinin, a sma'l matter. 

Kenspeckle, well known, easily known. 

Ket. matted, hairy ; a fleece of wool. 

Kilt, to truss up the clothes. 

Kirainer, a young girl, a gossip. 

Kin, kindred ; Kin', kind, (adj.) 

King's ho :d, a certain part of the entrails of 

an ox, &C. 
Kintra, country. 
Kintra Cooser, country sta'.lion. 
Kirn, the harvest supper ; a churn. 
Kirseu, to clirislen, to baptize. 
Kiit. a chest ; a shop counter. 
Kitchen, any thing that eats with bread; to 

serve for soup, gravy, &c. 
Kith, kindred. 

K.ttle. to tickle ; ticklish ; lively, apt. 
Knt in, a young cat. 
Kiult'.e, lo" cuddle. 
Kiuttlin, cuddling. 

Knaggie, like knags, or points of rrcks. 
Knap, to strike smartly, a sni;.rt blow. 
Knappin-hamm-r, a hammer for breaking 

Kuowe, a small r.und hillock. 



Kyle, a district in Ayrshire. 

Kyte, the belly. 

Kytlie, to discover ; to show cne s 



7, AD DIE, diminutive of lad. 

Laggen, the angle between the side and lot- 

toni of a wooden uisb. 
Leigh, low. 
Lairing, wading, ana sinking in snow, mud, 



La'lans, the Scottish dialect of the English 

Lambie, diminutive of lamb. 
Lampi', a kind of shell-iisu, a limpit. 

Lane, lone; my lane, tby lane, &c. myself 






■eiy. 



Lang, long ; To think lang, to long, lo weary 
Lap, did leap. 

Lave, the rest, the remainder, the others. 
Laverock, the lark. 



Lawic, shot, reckoning 
Lawlan, lowland. 



Leu's 



z. is: 



Leal, loyal, true, fa 
Lea-rig, grassy ridg 
Lear, (pronounced 1: 
Lee-lang, livelong. 
Leesome. pleasant. 
Leeze-me, a phrase 



Leuk, 
Libbet. gelded. 
Lift, the sky. 
Light 1 



a ballad ; a 
a kept 



rnpel. 



Limp't, limped, hoblled. 

Link, to trip along. 

Linkin, tripping. 

Linn, a waterfall ; a precipice. 

Lint, flax ; Lint i' ihe bell, flax in flower. 

Lintie, Liniwh^te, a linnet. 

L<ian, or loan in, the place of milking. 

Loof, the palm of the hand. 

Loot, did let. 

Looves, plural of loof. 

Loun, a iellow, a ragamuffin ; a woman of 

easy virtue. 
Loup, jump, leap. 
Lowe, a flame. 
Lowi", flaming. 

Lowiie, abbreviation of Lawrence. 
Lowse, to loose. 
Lows'd, loosed. 
Lug, the ear; a handle. 
Lu^get, having a bundle. 
Luggie, a smafl wooden dish with a handle. 
Lum, the chimney. 

Lunch, a large piece of cheese, flesh, &c. 
Luut, a co'.umu of smoke, to smoke, 
Luntin, smoking 



, of a 



iixed c 



. giey. 



Wang, among. 

Manse, the parsonage house, where the n 
Ur I.'t-. 



BURNS. —GLOSSARY. 



Manteel, a roaolle. 

Mark, marks. (This aiid several clher nouns 
which in Eaglish require an s, to form the 
plural, are in Scottish, like the words sheep, 
deer, the same in both numbers.; 

Marled, variegated ; spotted. 

Mar's year, the year 1715. 

Ma=h!uru, Meslin, mix-»d corn. 

Mask, to mash, as malt, „ v cc. 

Maikin-pat, a tea-pot. 

Maud, Maad, a pla.d worn by shepherds, &c. 

Maukin, a hare. 

Mavis, the thrush. 
Maw, lo mow. 
Mawin, mowing. 

Meikle, Meickle, much. 

Melancbolious, mournful. 

Mtlder, corn, or grain uf anj kind, sent to 

the mill to be ground. 
Me!), to meddle. Also a mallet (or pounding 

barley in a sione trotijh. 
Melvie, to soil with meal. 
Men', to mend. 

Mense, good manners, dec rum 
Menseless, ill-bred, rude impudent. 
Messin, a small dog. 
Midden, a dunghill. 
Midden-hole, a gutter at tLe bctioai of a tfuiBT- 

kill. 
Mini, prm, affectedly meek. 
Mia', mind; resemblance. 
Mind't, mind it ; reso \ t d, intend ng. 
M nuie, mother, uan. 
Mirk, Mirkest, d .k, da-kest. 
Mises', to abuse, ti, call iiames. 
Miser/: V, abused. 

Mislear'd, mischievous, unmannerly 
Misteuk, mistook. 

Rfalie-maxtie, confusedly m;xed. 

Moistify, to n)ois!en. 

Mcuy, or Monie, many. 

Mrols, dust, earth, the earth of the grave ; To 

rake 1' the mools ; to lav in the dusu 
Moo r», to nibble as a she p. 
Mocrlan', of or belonging ;o moore. 
Mcrn, the next day, to-morrow. 
Mou, the mouth. 
Moudiwort, a mole. 
Mousie, diminutive of mouse. 
Muckle, or Mickle. great, big, much. 
Musie, di.m -uiiveofnuiae. 
Muslin-kail, broth, c^:;po.-td simply of water, 



KA, no 


not. no 




Nae, no 


, not an 




N-eih'r 


s, or N 


ffeb 


Na-g, a 


horse. 




Nappy, 
Negieck 


ale; to 


be U 
-te. 


Neuk, a nook. 




Neist, e 






Nieve, 


beiisi. 




■" 


', hand! 


!':. 



NifTer, an exchange ; to exchange, to baiter, 

Niger, a negro. 

Nine-tailed-cat, a hangman's whip. 

Nit, a nut. 

Norland, of or belonging to the north, 

Notic't, noticed. 

Nov.te, black cattle. 






Ochils, name of mountains. 

O haith, O faith ! au oath. 

Ony, or Onie, any. 

Or," is often used for ere, before. 

Ora, or Orra, supernumerary, that 

spared. 
O't, of it 

Ourie, shivering ; drooping. 
Oursel, cr Oursels, ourselves. 
Outiers, cattle not housed. 



ray of fetching a blow with the 



itimate, familia 



twelva slo;.e of 



PACK, 

Painch, paunch. 

Paitrick, a partridge- 

Pang, to cram. 

Parle, speech. 

Parntch, oatmeal pudding, a well-known 

Scottish dish. 
Pat, did put ; a pot. 
Pattle, or Peiile, a p'ough-stafl'. 
Paughtv, proud, haughty. 
Pauky.'or Pawkie, cuiiuing, sly. 
Pay't, paid ; beat. 
Pech, to fetch the breath short, as in an asth- 

Pechan, the crop, the stomach. 

Pe^lin, peeling, the rind of fruit. 

Pet, a domesticated sheep, &c. 

Pett'.e, to cher;sh ; a plough-staff. 

Fhilibegs, short petticoats worn by the High- 



Phraise, fair speeches, flattery ; 


to flatter. 


Phraisin, flattery. 




Pibroch, Highland war rr.usic 


-dupted to th 


bagpipe. 




Fickle, a small quantity. 




Pine, pain, uneasiness. 




Pit, to put. 




Piacad, public proclamation. 




Plack, an old Scottish coin, the 


third partuf 


Scottish penny, twelve of vi 


lich make a 


English penny. 






oney. 


Platie, diminutive of olafe. 




?iew,or Pieugb, a plough. 




Pliskie, a .rick. 




Poind, to se ze catile cr g, cd= I 




laws of Scollaud r:l »w. 




Poortiih, poverty. 




Pcu, o pull. 




Pouk, to tluck. 
Poussie, a hare, cr cat. 
Poiit, a poal , 






Fou't. d,d pull. 




row, tk« . - 





Povinie, a Mile h.-rso. 

Powther, or pouiher. powder. 

Powthery, like powder. 

Preen, a pin. 

Prent, to print; print. 

P,-ie, to taste. 

Prie*d, tasted. 

Prief, proof. 

Prig, to chespen ; to dispute. 

Priggin, cheapening. 

Primsie, demure, precise. 

Propone, to lay down, to propose. 

Proro-es provosts. 

Puddocit-siool, a mushroom, fungus. 

Puud, pound; pounds. 

Pyle,— a pj le o' cad', a single grain of chaff. 



QUAT, -o quit. 
Qiiak, to quake. 
doer, a cow from one lo t< 



UL'RNS GLOSSARY. 

Roose, 






Raize, to madden, to i 

Ram-f-ezl'J, fatigued 

Raai-stam, thougiaies . 

R >ploch, properly a coarse ciolh ; b'.ti used 
a.i an adnoun for coarse. 

Rarely, excellenlly, very well. 

Rush, a rush ; ra-b-buas, a UsuJi of rus! es. 

Ration, a rat. 

Rauc'.e, rash ; stout ; fearless. 

Raueht, leached. 

Ea^, a row. 

Rax, to s'reich. 

Ream, cream ; to cream. 

Reaming, brimful, frothing. 

Reave, rove. 

Reck, to heed. 

Rede, counsel ; to counsel. 

Iv?d-wat-shod, walking ia blocd over ihe shoe- 
tops. 

Red-wud. stark mad. 

Ree, hair drunk, fuddUd. 

Reek, smoke. 

iteekin, smoking. 

Reekii, smoked ; smo'.cy. 

SemeaJ, remedy. 

Requite, requited. 

Rest, to stand restive. 

Reail, stood restive ; s=un'ed ; withered. 

Re=tricked, restricted. 

itew, to repent, to compassionate, 

Ri^f, Reef, plenty. 

R:ef randies, sturdy beggars. 

Rig, a ridge. 

Rigwiddie, rigwoodie, the rope or chain tVat 
crosses she saddle of a horse to support the 
spok.-s of a cart ; spare, withered, sapless. 

Rin, to run, to melt ; Rinnin, running. 

Rink, i he course of the stones ; a term iu curl- 



Rockm, spinning on the rock, or c\? 
Rcod, .stands likewise, for the plural r ■ 
Roon, a shred, u border cr sel 



Roosiy, : 



o commend. 



Rrun", round, in the circle of neighbourLcie', 

lioupet, hoarse, as with a cold. 

Routhie, plentiful. 

Row. to roli, to wrap, 

Koh'i, rolled, wrapped. 

Raw!;, ;o low, to beliow. 

licw h, or Routh, plenty. 

Row tin, lowing. 

Rczel, rosin. 

Rung, a cudgel. 

Runkled, wrinkled. 

Runt, the s:em of co : ewort or ctibb.tge. 

Ruth, a woman's name ; the book so called « 

Ryke, lo 'reach. 



Sark, a shirt ; a shift. 
Sarkit, provided in thirls. 
Saugh, the willow. 
Saui, soul. 



Scaith, to damage, to iniure; injury. 

Scar, a c:iff. 
Scaud, to scald. 
Scauld, to scold. 
Scaur, apt to be scared. 

Son, a cake of bread. 

Sconner, a loathing; to loathe. 

Scraich, to scream as a hen, partridge, Jic, 

Screed, to tear; a rent. 

Scrieve, to glide swiftly along-. 

Scrievin, gleesomely ; swiftl.. 

Scrimp, to scant. 

Scrimpet, did scant ; scanty. 

See'd, did see. 



Sen', to send. 

Seu't, I, &c. sent, or did send it ; send i:. 

Servan , servant. 

Settlin, settling ; to get a settlin, to be fright- 
ed into quietness. 

Sets, se'* off, goes away. 

Shackled, distorted ; shapeless. 

Shaird, a shred, a shard. 

Shangan, a stick cleft at one end for putting 
the tail of a dog, 4c into, by way of mis- 
chief, or lo frighten h'ra away. 

Shaver, a humorous wsg ; a barber. 

Shaw, to show ; a small wood in a hcliow. 

Sheen, bright, shir.inir. 

Sheep shank; to think one's self cae sheep- 
shank, to be conceited. 

Si e.ra-moor, Slier. ff-moor, the famous battle 
feueht in the rebellion. A. I). 1715. 

Shcugh, r. ditch, a trench, a sluice. 



burns.— : 



Shiel. a shed. 

Sn.ll, shriil. 

Skcg, a shock ; a p«=h eft 3t c 

Skoal, a shovel. 

Shoon, Hies. 

Shore, to offer, to threaten. 

Shor'd, cfien.<l. 

S neither, the shoulder. 

Shure, d:d shear, shore. 

Sic, such. 

Sicker, sur^, steady. 

s delcr.g. slanting. 



Siller 



>■ c- 



Skaith. see Scailh. 

Skellam, ■ vrerthiess ftlluw. 

Skelp, to srike, to slap ; to walk wiih a smart 

tripping step ; a smart stroke. 
Skslp e-i'.ir.mcr, a reprsaciifui Serin in female 

Sk-.lpin, stepp'n?, walk! r. 

Skies. ., or >k„- gn, prouu, nice, bighmetiled. 

ek, to cry shrilly. 
Skii iag, shi ek _, ciying. 
shr eked." 

I ; to run as.ca', <o deviate from 

in, :r hit, in an oblique d : rection. 



Skyrin, shinin? ; nicking a great show. 

Skyte, foes, very forcible motion. 

Slae, a sloe. 

Slade, did slide. 

Slap, a gate; a breach ii a fer.ee. 

Slaver, saliva; to etnlt saliva. 

Slaw, slow. 

Slee, slv ; sleest, sliest. 

Sleekit,' sleek; s'y. 

Sliddery, slippery. 

Slype, *ic fail over, as a wet furrow from the 

plough. 
Slype*. felL 

er ; nvtt'.e, sense. 



Snaw-broo, m-.-lted snow. 
Snaw'e, snowy. 

Saeck, Snick, the latch of a door. 
S.ied, to lop, to cut off. 
Sneeshin, sanff. 
Saeeshin-mill, a snafr-tos. 
Sneek-crawing, trick contriving, er_:":r. 
BneK, bitter, biting. 
Snirtle, lo langb restrainedly. 
Snood, a ribbon for binding the hair. 
Sneoi, one whose spirit is broken with oppres- 
sive slavery ; to submit tamelj ; to sneak. 
Snoove, to go smoothly asti . 



S:towk. to scent or snuff, as a dog, is. 

Snowkit, seemed, snuffed. 

Sonsie, hating swee:, encasing locks ; lucky, 

joll . . 
Sooru, to swim. 

rath, a petty ca h. 
Sougii, a hea%j sigh, a sound dying on '.be ear. 

Souier, a sijoe ranker. 

Rosens a dish made of oatmeal ; the seeds of 

oatmeal soured, &c fl 
Sowp. a >-poo fu'., a small quantity of euy 

lh;ng liquid. 
Sow h, to trj over a tune with a iow wh'olle. 
Sowther, solder ; to solder, to cement. 
Spae, to prophesy, to divine. 
Spaol, a limb. 

Spairge, to dash, to soil, as with mire. 
Spaviet, having the spavin. 
Spean, Spane, to wean. 
Sp.at, or Spate, a sweeping torrent, after r«;n 

or thaw. 
Speel, to climb. 
Spence, the country parlour. 
Spier, to ask, to inquire. 
Spier't, inquired. 
Splatter, a splatter, to splatter, 
Spleughan, a tobacco-pouch. 
Splore, a frolic ; a noise, riot. 

r '.hie, ;o clamber. 
Spratlle, to scramble. 
Spreckled, spotted, speckled. 
Spring, a qu ck air in muse ; a Scot'ish reel. 
Sprit, a totigh rooted plant, something like 

Sprittie, fail of spirits. 
Spunk, lire, met:le ; wit. 






Sp«" 


ikie, met. 
nis fatuus. 
tie, a stick 


esome, fiery ; w 
, used in miking 


11 o'v.'sp, or 
oatmeal pad- 


Sq" 


: er, ta Bii 


a party, 
ter in water, 


:; l 




N-- 


tile, to spr 


n, a screech , 


III . 


cream. 



S.'-ck, a rick of corn, hay, &c 
S'-a^g e, lha d.nmiaive of stag. 
Stalwart, <!ror.g, ='ouu 
Stan, to stand; S.a..'l, J: I stand. 
Stane. stone. 

Star.g, an acute pain ; a twinge ; fo sting. 
Stank, did stink; a pool of sliding w-tcr. 
— sop. 



blockhead ; half-witted. 

Siaw, ci'J s'ea! ; lo surfeit. 

Steth, to cram the be.Iy. 

Stechin, era-.. 

Steek, to shut ; a siteh. 

Steer, to mtile&t 

Sleeve, firm, compacted. 

Stell, a still. 

Sten, to rear as a horse, 

Sten't, re-rs'J. 

Sents, tribute; dues of any kind. 

Siev, steep; Steyest, steepest. 

.:le': S ibble-rig, the i 
harvest who takes the lead. 
Stick an' stow, totally, altogether. 
Sti'-s a erateh ; to ha!:, to fiaip. 



IUUNS GLOSSARY. 



Snmparf, the e'gnth part of a Winchester 
bushel. 

Stirk, a cow or bullock a year old. 

Siock, a plant or root of colewort, cabbage, 
&c. 

StOi;kin, a stocking; Throwing the Btockin, 
when the bride and bridegroom are put into 
bed, and the candle out, I be former throws 
a stocking at random among the company, 
and the person whom it strikes is the next 
that will be married. 



Sioup, or Stowp, a kind of j»g or dish with a 

handle. 
Stoure, dust, more particularly dust in motion. 
Stowlins, by stealth 



Strack, did strike. 

Strae, straw ; to die a fair strae death, to di 

a natural death. 
Straik, did strike. 
S.raikit, stroked, 
tttrappin, tall and handsome. 
S;raught, straight, to straighten. 
Streek, stretched, tight; 10 stretch. 
Striddle, to straddle. 
, to spout, 






tit by. 



tnpie, diminutive of stump. 
Strunt, spirituous liquor of any kind ; to walk 

sturdily; huff, sullenness. 
Stuff, corn or pulse of any kind. 
Sturt, trouble ; to molest, 
Stunin, frighted. 
Sucker, sugar. 
Sud, should. 
Sugh, the continued rushing noise of wind or 



souther 



i old 



for the 
English nation. 
Swaird, sward. 
Swall'd, swel.ed. 
Swank, stately, jolly. 
Swankie, or e wanker, a tight strapping young 



fellow 
wap, a 

«a.f, i 



r girl. 

exchange ; to barter. 



, did sweat. 
•Swatch, a sample. 
Swats, drink; eood ale. 
Sweaten. sweating. 
Sweer, lazy, averse ; dead 
averse. 

o beat ; to whip. 

n eddying blast, or pool 



extremely 



Swirl, _ .. 

knot ia wood. 
Swirlie, knacgie, full of knots. 
Nwith, get away. 
Swither, to hesitate in choice; an irresolute 

wavering in choice. 
Syne, since, ago ; then. 



TACKETS a kind of nails for driving into 

ine heels of shoes. 
Ta*. a toe; three-tae'd, having three prongs. 



Tairge, a target. 

Tak, to take; tukin, taking. 

Tamtallan, the name of a mountain. 

Tangle, a sea-weed. 

Tap, the top. 

Tapetless, needless, foolish. 

Tarrow, to murmur at one's allowance. 

Tarrow't, murmured, 

Tarry-breeks, a sailor 

Tauld, or tald, told. 

Taupie, a foolish, thoughtless young person. 

Tauted, or Tautie, matted together ; spokes 

of hair or wool. 
Tawie, that allows itself peaceably to be 

handled; spoken of a horse, cow, Ac. 
Teat, a small quantity. 
Teen, to provoke ; provocation. 
Tedding, spreading after the mower. 
Ten-hours bite, a slight feed to tie horses 

while in the yoke, in the forenoon. 
Tent, a field-pulpit; heed, caution; to tak 

heed ; to tend or herd cattle. 
Tentie, heedful, cautious. 
Tentless, heedless. 
Teugh, tough. 
Thack, thatch; Thack an' rape, clothing, 



Thae, these. 

Thairms, small guts ; fiddle-strings. 

Thankit, thanked. 

Theekit, thatched. 

Thegither, together. 

Tbemsel, themselves. 

Thick, intimate, familiar. 

Thieteless, cold, dry, spited; spoken of a 

person's demeanour. 
Thir, these. 
Th.rl, thrill. 

Thirled, thrilled, vibrated. 
Thole, to suffer, to endure, 
Thowe, a thaw; to thnw. 
Thowless, slack, lazy. 
Thrang, throng; a crowd. 
Thrapple, throat, windpipe 
Thrave, twenty-four sbeaves or two shocks of 

corn ; a considerable number. 
Thraw, to sprain, to twist ; to contradict. 
Thrawn, sprained, twisted ; contradicted. 
Threap, to maintain by dint of as-ertion, 
Threshin, thrashing. 
Thretteen, thirteen. 
Thristle, thistle. 

Through, to go on with ; to make out. 
Throutber, pell-mell, confusedly. 
Thud, to make a loud intermittent noise. 
Thumpit, thumped. 
Thy, e l, thyself. 

T.li't, to it. 

Timmer, timber. 

Tine, to lose ; Tint, lost. 

Tinkler, a tinker. 

Tint the gate, lost the way. 

Tip, a ram. 

tippence, twopence 

Tirl, to make a slight noise; to uncover. 

Tirlin, uncovering. 

Tither, the other. 

Tittle, to whisper. 

Tiillin, whispering. 

Tocher, marriage portion. 

Tod, a fox. 

Toddle, to totter, like the waik of a child. 



322 

Toddlin, tottering. 

Tootn, emp'j, to erop'v. 

Toop, a ram. 

Toun, a hamlet ; a far;u-hous<>. 

Tout, the blast of a born or trurn 

a horn, &c 
Tow, a rope. 

Towraond, a twelvemonth. 
Towzie, rough, -hagzy. 
Toy, a very old fashion of female 
Toyte, to toiler like old age. 
Transmogrified, transniigra'.ed, ui 

ed. 
Trashtrio, trasn. 



BURNS GLOSSARY. 

Wamefu', 



Tri 



rickie, full of tiisks. 
spruce 



, excellently. 
Trow, to believe. 
Trowth, trutli, a p°tty oah. 
Tryste, an appointment , a f i 
Trysted, appointed ; To tryst 



Tn% 



•led. 



, uncouth ; very, very great, 



Uncos, news. 
l T nkenn'd, unknown. 
Unsieker, unsure, unsteady. 
Unskaith d, undamaged, unhurt. 
Unweeting, unwitt ngly, unkuowir 
Upo', upon. 
Urchin, a hedgehog. 



Viltle, corn of all kinds, food. 



WA' wall ; Wa's 


, walls. 






Wabsler, a weave 








Wad, would; to 


bet ; a bet, a 


pledge. 


Wadna, would no 








Wae, wo ; sorrow 


fill. 






Waffu' woful, sc 


rrowful, 


wa 


lin^. 


Waesucks ! or wa 


es me! 


la, 




Waft, the cross 


thread t 


hat 


goes from the 


shuttle through 


the web 


wc 




Wair, to lay out, 




d. 




Wale, choice ; to 


choose. 






Waled, chose, ch 








Walie, ample, lar 


^jolly 


also an interjection 


of distress. 









ibelly-f.11. 
, restless. 



Wanchancu 

Wanrestfn', 

Wark, work. 

Wark-lume, a tool to work wilh. 

War:, or Warld, world. 

Warlock, a wizard. 

orldly, eager on amassin, 
3. warrant ; to warrant. 

Warst, worst. 

Warstl'd, or Warsl'd, wrestled. 

Wastrie, prodigality. 

t, wet; I wat, I wot, I know, 
ler-brose, bro=e made of meal 
mply, without the addition of n 

Wattle, a twijr, a wond. 
Wauble, to swing, to reel. 
Waught, a draught. 
, thickened a 
AVaukrife, not apt tc 
Waur, woi 






fullers do cloth. 



V"a 



rsted. 



r VVeanie. a child. 

or Weary; many a weary bod 
i ditferent person. 
Weason, weasand. 

slocking. See Stocking-. 
Wee, little; Wee things, little ones; Wee b 

ia.ll matter. 
Weel, well; Weelfnre, welfare. 

Weird, fate. 

e shall. 
Wha, wbo. 

Whalpit, whelped. 

Whang, a leathern string ; a piece of cbees 

bread, &o to give the strappado. 
Whare, where ; Whare'er, wherever. 

pp. to fly nimbly, jerk; penny whee 
ail beer. 

Whatreck, nevertheless. 

Whid, the motion of a hare, running but l) 

fr.ghted; a lie. 
VVhiddin, running as a hare or cony. 

is, whims, fane es, crotchets. 
Whingin, crying, complaining, fretting. 
Whirligigums, useless ornaments, trifling a 

pendages. 
Whissle, a whistle ; to whistle. 
Whisht, silence ; to hold one's Whisht, to 

silent. 
Whisk, to sweep, to lash- 
Whiskit, lashed. 

Whitter, a hearty draught of liquor. 
Whun-stane, a whin-stone. 



Wicht, w: 
cf a sup* 

Wick, to strikeaston 

Wicker, willow (the 
Wiel, a small whirlpool, 



ht, powerful, stror 
icr genius. 

oblique direction ; 

aller sort). 

ng term for 

rved ; avoiding 



BURNS. -GLOSSARY. 



indering. 



Wimpl'f, meanderpd. 
VViinplin, waving, me; 
Win, to Win, to winu. 
Win't, winded as a bottom of vai 
! Win's, winds. 



N\ 11 



..'il; n 



mock, a window. 
Winsome, hearty, Taunted, gay. 
Wintle, a stagger. ng motion; to 



Withoutten, without. 

Wizen'd, hide-bound, dried, shrunk. 

Wonner, a wonder ; a contemptuous appcila- 

Wons, dwells. 

Woo', wool. 

Woo, to court, to make love to. 

Woodie, a rope, more properly one made of 

Wooer-bab, the garter knotted below the knee 
with a couple of loops. 

Wordy, worthy. 

Worse , worsted, 

Wow, an exclamation of pleasure or wender. 

Wrack, to teaze, to vex. 

AVraith, a spirit, or ghost ; an apparition ex- 
actly like a living person, whose appearance 
is said to forbode the person's approachiug 



Wumble, a wimble. 
Wyle, to beguile. 
Wjliecoat, a flannel vest 
Wyte, blame; to blame. 



Yearlings, born in the sani 
Year is used both for singui 
Yearn, earn, an eagle, an 
Yell, barren, that gives no 


year, coevals. 
ar and plural years, 
osprtiy. 

milk. 


Yerki't, jerked, lashed. 




Yestreen, yesternight. 
Yett, a gate, such as is usu 
into a farm -yard or held. 
YU1, ale. 
Yird, earth, 
Vokin, yoking ; a bout. 
Yout, beyond. 
"* oursel, yourself. 


illy at the entrance 



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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 



mil mi in II i 
014 389 731 A 



